The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  Victor Böhring was sitting on the couch in a ridiculously tight bathing suit, flipping through what looked like a German newspaper. His bright orange swim trunks reminded Darren of the shorty-shorts that he’d seen the waitresses wearing at a nearby Hooters wing place. It had looked teasingly tantalizing on the girls, but not on the old man. Darren laughed out loud and realized it sounded a little crazy.

  “Vat in zee hell happened to you?” Victor barely looked up from his newspaper.

  “Wheyah’s the fookin’ girl?” Darren said in a low voice.

  “Your friend, Man’ti, has taken her somewhere else.”

  “He ain’t mah friend,” Darren said and pointed his pistol at Victor, emphasizing his point.

  “Zat may be zee case.” Victor carefully folded the paper and laid it on the coffee table. “However, he is taking care of zis matter, since you could not.”

  “Thet asshat ain’t gettin’ none of mah money!”

  Victor sniffed. “Your money?”

  “Ah’m gonna kill thet fooka, and then I’m gonna kill thet fookin’ girl.” Darren’s voice was louder now.

  Victor arched an eyebrow. “And zen you will hev your money?”

  “Thet seven million’s been mine since the beginning. Ah’ve paid a heavy price for it.” Darren held up his bandaged left hand and shook it.

  Victor inhaled and picked up a cigar from the nearby side table. He stuck it in his mouth and rolled it around, making sucking sounds as he moistened the end.

  “You had your chance, Darren.” Victor took the cigar out of his mouth. “I gave you every opportunity to retrieve zee check. You failed.”

  Darren could feel tears welling up in his eyes. Everything was falling apart.

  “Man’ti will find zees man, Troy, get me my check, and zen he will be taking care of zee girl.” Victor stood. “And you vill get nothing, as you deserve.”

  The check… Man’ti hadn’t found the check yet. Meaning, it was still out there somewhere, likely with Troy. The girl was the key. She had to know where he was, and Darren would get it out of her.

  “Wheyah did he take the girl?”

  “Zat is no longer any concern of yours.”

  Darren raised the pistol and pointed it at Victor. “Ah, but see, thet’s wheyah you’re wrong.”

  Victor snarled. “Don’t be stupid. Zat check was never yours, it was mine! Vat are you going to do? Shoot me? Vat vill zat accomplish? Imbecile!”

  Darren aimed the pistol at Victor’s tan belly hanging over the waistband of his tight orange bathing suit. He pulled the trigger. The bang was a quick, short pop and the bullet plunged into the man’s stomach. Blood shot out of the hole.

  “Jeezus Christ!” Victor yelled. “Vat zee hell are you doing?”

  He jerked his hands down to cover the wound in his stomach. Darren pointed the gun at Victor’s head.

  “Let’s try this again,” he said calmly, “wheyah did Man’ti take the girl?”

  “You are a dead man.”

  “Not yet,” Darren said through a grin, and lowered the gun to Victor’s neck.

  He fired again, the bullet ripping through the soft flesh between the man’s neck and shoulder. He gasped and clutched his throat. Darren began to see the man’s bluster fall away. He was bleeding profusely from his stomach and his shoulder, fear starting to seep its way into the man’s eyes.

  “God’s sake, man!” Victor held up a hand. “Okay, okay! Zee money is yours. Man’ti has zee girl. They’ve gone to zee apartment.”

  Darren lowered the gun. “See now, thet wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “Shit!” Victor was breathing hard and blood was pouring out of his wounds. “Call 9-1-1. I must have zee ambulance!”

  Darren watched as Victor squirmed around on the couch. The beautiful linen upholstery was turning from white to red. He wondered if he had nicked an artery in Victor’s neck, because blood flowed freely from the wound in his shoulder.

  “Quickly, you idiot!” he screamed at Darren, waving a bloody hand toward the phone.

  “Sorry, mate,” said Darren “The Body” McGlashen, and raised the pistol and pointed it at Victor Böhring’s head.

  “Vat zee fu—”

  Victor’s cry was silenced by the third bullet from Darren’s gun. The bullet crashed through the man’s skull and his squirming stopped immediately as his head slammed back onto the couch. Blood and brain splattered all over the wall, and Darren couldn’t help but grin.

  He knew where the girl was, and as a bonus, she was with Man’ti. Two more people were going to die today. Now, he just needed a ride.

  A thought came to him as he looked around the quiet beach house; the maid’s Toyota. He shuffled around the living room until he found what must’ve been her purse—a cheap Coach knock-off. Digging around in it, he found the keys and her wallet, which he opened to find fifty bucks folded neatly in the back. Victor must’ve paid her today. He stuffed the money in his pocket and headed for the door.

  As he opened it, he heard something. A sniff? A cry? He strained to listen… nothing. Just his imagination. He painfully limped down the stairs to the carport and worked the key in the maid’s car. It turned over on the first crank. Nothin’ like a Toyota, he thought. He turned on the radio as he backed out of the drive. It was blaring some sort of Spanish-language music and he fumbled the dial until he found another station. The jangly chords of The House of the Rising Sun echoed out of the tinny speakers. He cranked it up, rolled the window down, and drove off Pawleys Island for the last time.

  Debby stifled the cry that had almost escaped her mouth when the man had walked into the kitchen and scrounged around in the maid’s purse. She’d been pouring a glass of orange juice when the shooting started and she’d fallen to the ground behind the counter and listened to the whole exchange. Thankfully, the children had all been sent down the beach.

  She wasn’t particularly sad about Victor being shot, she was just shocked and afraid. But she’d managed to stay quiet until the man had left. After waiting long enough to be sure he wasn’t coming back, she picked herself up and ran to the phone. Dialing 9-1-1, she told the operator what had happened. Yes, he’d been shot. Yes, he was definitely dead. Yes, I’ll wait here.

  She hung up. Troy. Gotta get to Troy.

  She looked out the back window to see the children playing on the beach. She ran down the steps to the sand and headed to the house next door where she’d seen Troy go… interestingly, there were three cop cars out front. Good, she thought, the cavalry is here.

  32

  Welcome To The Brady Bunch

  Chesney R. Biggins paced back and forth on the rear deck of Troy Bodean’s beach house. He clicked his missed call log to re-dial his friend, John Dodd Welford with the FBI. As the phone rang, he glanced toward the home of Victor Böhring; nothing out of the ordinary, bunch of kids playing out on the beach… alone… no parents watching…

  He turned to look up at the house. The massive deck was empty, no one rocking, no one peeking out of the back windows to check on the children. He could see the carport area under the front of the house and thought it odd that there was a beat-up Toyota Corolla parked beneath. Hadn’t there been another vehicle there when I arrived? He couldn’t remember for sure, but he’d thought there was at least one other. Strange… the Toyota didn’t look like a car the Böhrings would drive.

  The receiver picked up. “Well, isn’t it a fine day in Georgia when your old buddy, Chesney Biggins, picks up the phone to call?” came John’s voice over the phone. “How the hell are you, ol’ pal?”

  Chesney jerked the conversation back to the business at hand. “John, did you listen to my message?”

  John must’ve sensed the concern in Chesney’s voice because he snapped into his FBI analytical voice. “I did not. Didn’t realize it was a business call. What’s the situation?”

  Chesney took a deep breath and recited the fact sheet he’d collected from the murder of—and possible conspiracy surrounding—
Rick Hairre. He fed John the details of the current kidnapping situation and where they were with the possible connection of Victor Böhring, the Consolidated Paper Mill, the missing check, and so on.

  John was quiet, but Chesney could hear the clicking of computer keys in the background.

  “Chesney,” John started, “there’s a file here on Victor. We’ve been watching him and a company called… The Traditional Department of The Interior of South Carolina…” As John apparently read through the file, he mumbled, “money laundering, conspiracy, yada yada yada.” He inhaled. “Ches, I don’t see anything here about a check or a murder. This is new. There are agents nearby on his case. I’m going to send them…”

  A muffled bang rang out from next door. Chesney instinctively ducked his head. He dropped to one knee, scanning the house next door.

  “Get ‘em here, fast.” Chesney clicked the phone and shoved it into his pocket.

  He drew his pistol and shuffled across the deck to get a better look at the Böhring house. The kids were still playing. Being closer to the ocean, the waves had probably muffled the already quiet pop. They never heard it, but Chesney knew exactly what it was—a small caliber pistol. Someone was shooting in the Böhring’s beach house.

  The door of the Toyota Corolla suddenly slamming shut and the quick firing of the engine drew his attention. The car jerked out of the driveway, but it was too far away to see who was driving.

  Chesney stuck his head inside the house and said to the police officers, “Something is up at the Böhring house. Sit tight. Lock the door.”

  He ran out onto the deck, down the stairs to the sand, and started the best waddling run he could manage on the soft white sand. He had one hand on his pistol and kept his eyes glued to the back door of the Böhring house. The door suddenly flew open and he froze, crouching down and drawing his pistol.

  A woman came running down the stairs of the house. She was wearing a teal blue one-piece bathing suit and a white cover up draped over her shoulders. In her hand, she held an empty glass. She was crying hysterically as she ran. Chesney quickly figured out that she didn’t see him as her gaze was cast down toward the sand.

  “Ma’am,” he called, holding up his hand, “stop right there.”

  Mrs. Böhring? She was middle-aged, but very pretty. She had the look of someone who used to be trim and fit, but the toll of children and a life of luxury had left her worn out and a little soft.

  She stuttered to a stop, surprised to see him, but then suddenly relaxed. “Oh, thank God, officer,” she said and motioned to the house. “My husband’s been shot!”

  Chesney grabbed the radio mic strapped to his shoulder. “This is unit 47, I need a bus over at—”

  She interrupted him. “No need for an ambulance. He’s dead.”

  “Check that,” he said into the mic, “and gimme a second to assess the situation.” He clicked the mic back to his shoulder and holstered his gun. “You’re sure he’s dead?”

  “Yes, very,” she said and sniffed back tears. “Some crazy man that works for him came in and shot him.”

  “Crazy man that works for him?”

  “Yes.” She shook her head. “I don’t know, Darrel or Darren, or something like that.”

  “Is he still in the house?”

  “No, he’s gone.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, he took the maid’s keys and I guess her car.” A questioning look flitted across her eyes. “The maid… I have no idea where she is.”

  Chesney put his hand on her shoulder and pointed the other back at Troy’s house. “Mrs. Böhring, listen to me. There are two uniformed police officers in that house right there. Get your children and go knock on the door. I will call them and tell them to let you in.”

  She nodded and started walking toward the group of children. They seemed not to have noticed that anything strange was going on, but when she spoke to them, they all dropped everything and ran toward her. She herded them together and they all jogged toward Troy’s house.

  “I’m going to check out your place,” he called to her as they passed by. “I’ll still need an ambulance out here for the…”

  He stopped short, realizing the kids could hear him.

  “Let’s go, kids,” she said and grabbed the nearest two and shouldered them around toward Troy’s place.

  “Why are we leaving, Mommy?”

  “What’s the ambulance for?”

  “Don’t worry, honey,” she reassured them, “everything’s going to be just fine. Let’s go.”

  Chesney watched them walk away and turned back toward the Böhring house.

  The scene inside was gruesome. Victor was indeed dead, there was no doubt about that. He’d been shot three times, including a head shot that had splattered gore and blood all over the expensive, white linen couch. He radioed the two officers in Troy’s beach house and the station. All hands on deck for the crime scene.

  While he waited for the backup to arrive, he ticked off each room of the house; empty, no sign of any further violence in any of the other rooms. Nobody home… no sign of the maid. That’s odd, he thought. Then he recalled the Toyota Corolla speeding away from the house. He decided to walk down the steps to the carport and check it out. There might be some dropped scrap of paper or cigarette butt or something like that to help him find the shooter.

  As he reached for the knob leading to the stairs, he saw it turn, slowly and quietly. It squeaked, and whoever was turning it froze. After a second they resumed twisting the brushed chrome knob. Chesney backed away softly and edged himself behind a nearby chair. He drew his gun and pointed it at the door.

  With a soft click, the door creaked open. Chesney watched as the barrel of a gun peeked through. Shit, did the killer come back? He crouched and prepared to fill the guy with as many holes as he could. With a sudden jerk, the door swung open. Chesney’s finger tightened on the trigger and he suddenly gasped, dropping his weapon to his side.

  “Officer present,” he called to the two Litchfield policemen coming in the doorway. “All clear.”

  They stood from their own crouches and holstered their guns.

  “The house is empty,” —Chesney motioned toward the gore in the living room— “except for Victor. Backup?”

  “On the island, be here in seconds,” the first officer said, “and there’s another body downstairs in a storage closet. An older woman, possibly Latino.”

  “The maid,” Chesney said. “Did Mrs. Böhring and her children make it to the house safely?”

  “They did,” the second officer said, nodding from behind the first.

  “Good.” Chesney put his hands on his hips. “Okay, let’s get this scene secured. Don’t touch anything.” He pointed to one of the officers. “Front door.” Turning toward the second officer, he nodded toward the sliding glass door facing the beach. “Back door.”

  “Got it.”

  Chesney walked into the kitchen and found the refrigerator door open and a carton of orange juice sitting open on the counter, which explained the empty glass Mrs. Böhring was carrying. He didn’t touch it, but he did look inside the fridge. It was an odd collection of children’s food—American cheese, hot dogs, fruit juice pouches—and food from another completely different social station—caviar, escargot and… well, he didn’t recognize the other dish.

  Welcome to the Brady Bunch, he thought.

  33

  Behind The Balls

  Troy Clint Bodean sat on the futon in his rented beach house, The Turtle House, and studied the sharpie-scribbled initials inside his hat. Ownership of the hat being what it currently was, new information had come to light, making it look like it might not be his hat much longer, since the initials R. H. were scrawled inside. It looked like it might’ve been Rick Hairre’s hat.

  Just seconds ago, the cops had stormed out of the house without much explanation and leaving the two of them alone… waiting… for what, he didn’t know. He traced the initials on the inner headband o
f the hat again and looked at Laura Kate Starlington.

  She was wringing her hands and staring at her phone. Obviously worried about Karah, she hadn’t said much when they found out she was no longer in Laura’s beach house.

  “Laura,” he started, “I think I’ve figured something out.”

  She looked up at him, clearly puzzled.

  “A few hours ago, you asked me where I got my hat.” He turned it right side up and sat it on the coffee table in front of her. “Do you remember asking me that?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, as the case may be, I um…” He stood up and started to pace, his fingers steepled together. “You see, dangit all… I found this hat.”

  Confusion spread across her face again.

  “See, I was fishin’ out in the creek,” —he motioned through the window to the winding water on that side— “tryin’ to catch a big ‘ole red drum. And, well, I did. It jerked my brand-new rod into the water, so I dove in after it, and that’s when the jon boat hit me in the head.”

  “Troy,” she said, squinting her eyes, “what in the hell are you talking about?”

  “That’s just it,” he said and opened his hands, palms to the ceiling, “I found your dad’s hat in the boat.”

  Her mouth opened a little.

  “I don’t have a clue how it got there,” he said, and sat back down next to her and flipped the hat upside down, “but that’s where it came to me.” He pointed to the initials.

  Tears formed in her eyes. She thought back to the first time she’d seen a picture of Troy on Karah’s phone. Something about the hat had registered with her, but with so much on her mind, she hadn’t figured it out. She remembered buying the hat for her stepdad for his birthday. She was only six, or maybe seven, at the time, but she’d loved the peacock plume and hoped he would too. She’d forgotten all about it, like you forget what color someone’s eyes are or what kind of shoes they wear. It was too familiar. And now, here it was, sitting on the table in front of her, with her dad’s writing, his last message to her in the faded initials. Her cheeks were wet as she picked up the hat and traced the letters, R.H.