The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  She nodded and smiled. “As long as I’m here, you can land with me too.”

  “Thank you, darlin’,” he said, pushing back from the table.

  He stood up and pushed his Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat back on his head.

  “Take care,” he said, and walked to the door.

  He got into his truck and clicked on the radio. He wondered if the music was a sign of things to come, as Jim Morrison crooned out the words to Light My Fire.

  He turned it up.

  Epilogue

  1492

  Chris Collins carried the silver case into his office and shut the door behind him. He placed it carefully on his desk and undid the clasps. It hissed open as some sort of preservative gas wafted out of it.

  He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and lifted the object out of the case. He turned it over and clicked on a small pen-light to examine the inside.

  He could barely make out the words La Gallega and underneath that, Juan de la Cosa. It was his ancestor’s bell. The famed bell from the Santa Maria. The holes in it had a story to tell. He wasn’t sure what that story was, but someday it would come to light. The Pinzon’s treachery would be discovered and the name of Christopher Columbus would be honored once again.

  He gently placed the bell back in the case. Stripping the gloves from his hands, he reached for his phone and buzzed the intercom.

  “Teresa,” he said, “I have an item for storage.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  The case was loaded onto a cart and wheeled into the underground lab with the other one thousand, four-hundred and ninety-two artifacts, where it would wait for examination—buried again.

  Blood Wave

  A Troy Bodean Adventure #3

  Part I

  Light The Way

  “When you light a candle, you also cast a shadow.”

  -Ursula K. Le Guin

  Prologue

  There’s A Light...

  Being careful not to get any of the girl’s blood on him, Adrian Hull—known as Taz to his friends—broke the bones in her arms, crushed between his foot and the floor. She was petite, so they didn’t offer much resistance. Once he was through with that, he proceeded to break her femurs. Those took a bit more doing, but he was strong and they eventually gave way. After this gruesome work was done, she fit perfectly into the chest that had once held the oil for the light at the top of the Cape Florida Lighthouse on Key Biscayne.

  It was the perfect place to hide a body, as it had been sitting empty and unused since the Miami Centennial celebration in July 1996. And, of course, it no longer ran on oil, so there was very little chance anyone would open the decorative chest anyway.

  As he made his way down the spiral staircase, he noticed he’d smudged a little bit of her blood on his pristine white shoe.

  “Dammit all,” he muttered, wiping the stained heel with his hand, but the blood refused to budge. Wearing all white was the standard at The Ritz-Carlton Tennis Garden, so he’d have to get the stain out, or get some new ones before he started his shift.

  Linda Big Boobs Morgenstern was his first lesson of the day. He glanced down at his watch: 7:21 am. Plenty of time. She always booked him at eight and showed up at 8:15, sometimes 8:30.

  He creaked open the door at the base of the lighthouse and peeked out. The beach at the south end of the island was deserted. He stepped out onto the sand, removed his shoes, and flung them as far as he could out into the surf.

  Immediately after doing so, he realized it was a big mistake. The tide would surely bring them right back in to shore. He waded out in the rising tide, scrounging around for the sneakers. He found one of them, the clean one.

  “Shit,” he mumbled, and threw the shoe as far as he could back into the water.

  Maybe they’d disappear or maybe even get eaten by a shark. And maybe the salt water would dissolve the blood anyway. Too many maybes.

  He took off his socks and started jogging back down the beach. A few early morning runners were out, but not many tourists. Most of them were looking down at Fitbits or lost in their earbuds, so they never even noticed him—he was invisible. And that invisibility was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

  Caroline had been so cute. She’d taken tennis lessons from him since her senior year of high school, and he’d been certain she was interested in him. They had shared so much time together and she had worn more and more revealing outfits for their lessons—which, of course, meant she wanted him to look at her lithe body. Remembering the sheen of sweat on her after an intense workout sent a thrill through him, and he mildly regretted he’d had to kill her. But only mildly.

  The trouble had all started last night. They’d been on the courts after nine… alone. Even Betty the desk clerk had gone home, and he’d promised he’d lock up. They played for over two hours… off the clock. Wasn’t that worth something to her? He replayed the scene in his mind, over and over, wishing he could take it all back.

  The heat flush on her cheeks and her million-dollar smile had made her irresistible. Taz had read the situation wrong and leaned in and kissed her. She immediately slapped him on the cheek, and hard.

  “What the hell?” she demanded, pushing back from him.

  “But, I thought—” he started.

  “Well you thought wrong, asshole.”

  The sudden vehemence of her reaction startled him. They’d been together for so long now.

  “I have a boyfriend,” she yelled as she stood up and started shoving her gear into her bag, “and you’re just a piece of shit tennis pro.”

  Taz could feel the anger rising in him. It was always this way at The Ritz. He was the help, a lower class of person.

  “I mean, really, Taz?” she said as she started walking away.

  He fought the sudden burning hate inside him and tried desperately to rescue the situation. “Wait, Caroline. Ah was jus’ playin’ ‘round. Let’s jus’ forget the whole thing.”

  She turned back toward him and thrust a finger into his chest. “Forget the whole thing? Are you frickin’ kidding me?”

  Tears formed in her eyes, apparently from the sudden rage.

  “No, I won’t be forgetting the whole thing,” she said, and jabbed him with each word. “First, I’m going to get you fired. Then, I’m going to tell my boyfriend—who by the way is a wrestler at the University of Miami. And last…”

  Adrian Taz Hull felt his world crashing down on him. He’d worked so hard to get out of Tasmania, and had found this amazing job at The Ritz-Carlton Tennis Garden. They’d gone to a lot of trouble to get his visa taken care of, to get him this position, and even rented a place for him to live in another employee’s name (slightly shady, but, eh, he didn’t care). He’d likely be denied any further stay in the United States; there would be no green card, and he’d likely be deported ASAP. That’s when she let the hammer fall.

  “And last, I’m going to tell my father,” —she put her hands on her hips— “and when his lawyers are through with you, you’ll wish you were dead.”

  His vision misted red and the next few seconds happened in super slow motion. Without thinking, he unleashed a backhand with his tennis racket. Unfortunately, his one-handed backhand had often been compared to the legends of the game—Rod Laver, Pete Sampras and Roger Federer—as being one of the hardest hit strokes… ever.

  Her head snapped sideways and teeth went flying in a spray of blood.

  “Fookin’ bitch,” he muttered as she slumped to the ground.

  As he realized what had happened, he dropped his racket and fell to his knees beside her.

  “Aw, shit, Caroline,” he said, and put his hands under her neck.

  He could feel loose bones working around under her skin. She was stone-cold dead. No passing go, no collecting two-hundred dollars, straight to jail dead.

  His mind raced. Call the cops? No, that was a short route to extradition to jail in Tasmania. Betty was the only person at the club who’d known he
was here with her, but that wasn’t unusual. Caroline usually walked down to her lessons from the Grand Bay Resort & Residences where her father owned the entire top floor penthouse, but for some reason, she’d driven tonight. Her brand-new, fire engine red 718 Boxster S Porsche was sitting out front.

  He dragged her body into the bathroom and shoved her into a stall. He’d have plenty of time to get the car up to South Beach. So many beautiful girls disappeared up there, she’d be just one more of a thousand cases. The connection with him would end when they found her car.

  He screamed through traffic, admiring the three-hundred horsepower beast of a car, and parked it in a public lot near Club Opium. He didn’t bother to pay the attendant; he just jumped out of the car and jogged to the nearest bus stop. An hour and a half later he was back on Key Biscayne hauling her body down the beach. It had taken him longer than he planned, most of the night actually. But as dawn broke, he felt he’d done all he could to distance himself from the unfortunate incident.

  He unlocked the clubhouse door and let himself in. Betty hadn’t gotten in yet, so he had time to grab a new pair of shoes from the stock room, jump in the shower, and change into a new set of tennis whites. He dumped the old ones into the laundry and walked out into the lobby.

  Betty was here now and scribbling some notes on the court reservation sheets.

  “Good morning, Taz,” she said, smiling. “Linda’s here. Can you believe it? Early for once.”

  “Crikey, that’s a first,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “How’d it go last night with Caroline?”

  “Aah, ya know,” he said, sounding as casual as possible, “same as always. Workin’ on that ridiculous two-handed backhand.”

  She laughed. “Good, good. I have a message here that her sister wants to get a lesson in tonight. You’re a popular man!”

  Sister. Caroline had a twin sister—Mindy. She was never as good at tennis as Caroline had been, but she was just as cute. Maybe cuter.

  Taz felt his mood lift. He was back in the game.

  “Ah reckon that’s alright,” he said and winked at Betty. “Get her in at seven, then.”

  “You got it, Taz,” she said as he grabbed his racket from his desk.

  With horror, he spotted blood all over the top of it. He quickly grabbed a guest towel from the counter and wiped it clean before the kindly desk clerk looked up.

  “Linda’s out on court five,” she said and waved toward the door, “and don’t get caught staring at her chest again, young man.” She was smirking and shaking her head.

  “Me? Ha! Ah nevah get caught,” —he winked at her and lowered sunglasses over his eyes— “got me shades!”

  Walking out to the court, he caught a glimpse of Linda. She was wearing an insanely small and tight sports bra stretched to its limit over massive fake boobs. And thank the gods… it was white. Her shorts were skin-tight over what the Miami boys called a glorious booty. She was jumping up and down, swinging her arms back and forth in a ridiculous routine to prepare for her lesson. Taz felt his excitement growing. Today was going to be a great day after all.

  He headed out into the sunshine feeling like a new man.

  1

  Life’s A Beach

  Troy Clint Bodean tilted his Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat back on his head, took his Costa Del Mar Pescador sunglasses off his blue eyes, and wiped the sweat from his forehead and face with his red bandana. The sun was scorching and the pristine white sand burned his feet and the seat of his trunks. He could feel the salt from the ocean and the sweat drying on his skin. The air was briny and thick, reminding him of the hottest days back in Louisiana. Offshore, in the distance, a black cloud skirted the horizon. Sometimes the afternoon storms would come in and sometimes they wouldn’t. The tinny sound of his old-school antenna radio bleated out the local Danger Dave Radio show. Ol’ Dave was in rare form today, playing plenty of Stones, Beatles and Zeppelin. Troy turned it up and slipped his sunglasses back over his eyes.

  Children were laughing and screaming and running and swimming in every direction. The cacophony didn’t bother him though. As long as the ocean waves kept crashing, he was doin’ fine. A girl of about twelve was floundering in a two-person sailboat and Troy knew the call would come soon enough… but he decided to wait it out.

  “Hey, Tony-boy!” called a man’s whiny voice from the garish tiki hut up by the pool.

  Troy didn’t look back at the man. “It’s Troy, Don. Troy.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatevah,” Don said. “You gonna get out theyah and help that girl bring our boat back?”

  Don Henderson, the manager of The Ritz-Carlton’s beach services, was not Australian, but for some reason he affected an Australian accent. He had thinning red hair, transparently white skin, and at least one-hundred freckles per square inch on his face. He was definitely not the type of person who should spend more than ten minutes on the beach for fear of dramatic sunburn. Troy hated him… but he was the boss.

  “Yup.” Troy stood slowly, working out the cricks in his back. “I’ll get ‘er in.”

  He half-waded, half-swam out to where the girl was drifting around, and grabbed the rope on the front of the boat. It took him the better part of fifteen minutes and a pretty good gash on his right hand to tow her back to the shore. Her mother, who hadn’t realized the girl was in any distress, tucked a dollar bill into Troy’s hand and thanked him for his trouble.

  “No trouble at all, ma’am,” he said, and tipped his hat and shoved the money into his pocket.

  He’d collected a whopping total of eight dollars today. It wasn’t much, but it would pay for at least two nights of bar tabs at the Sonesta if Gino was working, maybe three.

  The black cloud offshore had rolled in closer, and suddenly a crack of lightning danced down to the water. A loud boom of thunder followed seconds later. Looked like this one was rolling in.

  “Get ‘em in, Troy!” called Don, “I’m outta heyah.”

  Troy nodded and grabbed an air horn from the nearest sailboat. He raised it into the air and blasted it three times—the universal signal for all of the Ritz-Carlton’s boats, surf boards, canoes, jet skis, and paddle boards to come back to shore. It would be up to him to get all the riders safely back to the beach. Don wouldn’t be helping, that was for sure.

  People were starting to shake the sand from their towels and stuff belongings into expensive designer beach bags as the wind began to blow. Huge drops of rain suddenly pelted down on the sand, nearly causing it to sizzle.

  Troy dragged boat after boat and board after board up onto the sand and chained them together to secure them for the night. The drops turned to sheets of rain and Troy let it wash the salt from his skin. When he dragged the last board up the beach, he found a white shoe tangled up in the tow-line. It looked fairly new, so he shrugged and tossed it into the plastic bin by the door that held his belongings during his shift—someone might claim it.

  Tugging on his old Tortuga Adventures t-shirt, he locked the tiki hut door and started down the beach toward the Sonesta. Gino would be working tonight and he had eight dollars in his pocket. Life was good.

  The Sonesta Resort on Key Biscayne was one of the last holdovers from the seventies construction boom on the island. It had tiered landings on the ends that staggered all the way to the top floor, making it look as if a cruise ship had been parked on the beach. Its tenure on the island was going to be cut short by new construction, starting whenever the funding was approved. Troy hated that thought. It was a groovy place tucked in with all the pastel Miami crap that had gone up recently. The best part was the pool bar. It was tiny. Eight people could sit around the bar on shiny chrome stools with red leather cushioned tops—if they were okay with their elbows touching. The bar itself was just a crappy white laminate counter on a base wrapped with straw. Someone had decided it would be a tiki bar at some point, and the effect was less than tropical. And unless you knew the bartender, the drinks were more expensive than the one
s sloshed out on South Beach. Good for Troy, he knew the bartender.

  Troy could hear Gino’s music blaring out on the sand as he got closer to the Sonesta’s beachside entrance. Lola, by the Kinks. He played it at least five times a night and paraded around the bar thumping his chest and belting out the quasi-transgender lyrics with gusto as his tourist guests laughed, sang along, and stuffed money in his tip jar. He emptied his jar more than five times a night.

  Taking the steps up to the pool deck three at a time, Troy ducked under the cover of the bar’s tin roof. He took off his hat and shook the rain out of his hair.

  “Troy, my friend!” Gino shouted over the tops of the tourists crowded around his bar, “you made it.”

  “Yup,” —Troy tilted his bearded chin back at the bartender— “was a good day on the beach, until the squall hit.”

  “Squall?” Gino laughed. “That was hardly a whimper!”

  A particularly amorous couple got up from the bar. The man was salt and pepper gray and the girl was South Beach plastic blonde. Troy figured he knew exactly what was going on there and tipped his head to them as they walked past him toward the Oceana. That room is probably rented by the hour, he thought.

  Gino rushed over and mopped the bar in front of Troy. He was wearing his trademark navy blue Hawaiian shirt with giant orange flowers all over it tucked into ridiculously tight white shorts. His mustache was another holdover from the seventies and his hair was a mop of loose, wavy auburn curls. Some of the older ladies who frequented his bar thought he was a dead ringer for Tom Selleck.

  “The usual, my friend?” Gino grinned, holding up a bottle of one-hundred fifty-one proof rum.

  “You know me too well,” Troy said and smiled, “but I’ll just go with a Corona tonight.”