The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  “Geezus,” Gil said and looked up from the paper, “are these right?”

  “Best numbers in the biz.” James sat back in his seat. “IBD/TIPP, Rasmussen… hell, you even got the local papers calling you Governor-elect already.”

  Gil handed the sheet back to James. “Are you sure this… business… with the girl is—”

  “Done, through, caput, finished.”

  “God.” Gil inhaled deeply. “That was a bad thing.”

  The car pulled through the toll gate at Key Biscayne without slowing down—a perk of being a public official in Florida. As they eased into the parking lot of the Grand Bay Resort, the current staging location of the campaign, a light drizzle began to ping the windshield.

  “Come in for a drink?” James asked as he stepped out.

  “Not tonight,” Gil said and waved him off, “Sandy’s waiting for me and I need to be home.”

  “Hell, just one drink.” James looked at his ridiculously garish Rolex. “It’s only eight-thirty.”

  “Ah, hell,” Gil said after a minute, “I guess it won’t hurt anything to have just one.”

  “That’s the spirit old boy.” James helped him out of the car. “Besides, you’ll have plenty of time to spend with her when you move into that mansion on the hill, Governor.”

  “I suppose I will.” Gil smiled and closed the door.

  “Today, it’s Governor’s Mansion of Florida,” James Hardy said as he slapped him on the back, “ and tomorrow, the White House.”

  Gil laughed. He hadn’t given that much thought… but why not? Hell, a lot of presidents had won elections by carrying Florida. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe this dreadful business with the intern really would go away forever.

  Remington Hoyt Reginald drummed his fingers on his steering wheel sitting outside the one star rated Food Spot gas station on NW 154th street in Hialeah. He was charged up. He had just come from dropping the evidence off at the crime lab, and though he knew what the results of the tests would show, the excitement of waiting had his leg bouncing up and down wildly. The girl at the lab had said the nature of his evidence, inferring a homicide as it did, would push his blood and teeth samples to the top of the list. They would have something for him in two hours or less.

  Rather than drive back to his less-than-posh accommodations in Liberty Square, he’d decided to wait it out near the lab. Fifteen minutes had passed and he couldn’t take it anymore… he’d need a diversion.

  He watched the various customers of the Food Spot go in and out like ants. Some looked as if they might be homeless and in search of cool air conditioning, others looked like tourists on the way to Miami who’d taken a wrong turn, and almost all came out of the store with an alcoholic beverage of some sort stashed in a brown paper sack. None came out with any of the tubular, mystery ingredient, rotated-on-a-hot-dog-roller food. Remington waited for the store to empty and whisked inside. He knew what he was here for and didn’t want any lookie-loos around watching him make his purchase.

  He walked as nonchalantly as he could through the store, picking up the items he needed as if he just happened to see them on the shelf.

  Two packages of Mike and Ike candy, a single of the new limited release Zima, and a giant hot dog from the aforementioned heat rollers with mustard, ketchup, relish and chili. He sauntered up to the counter with a relaxed smile and placed his items carefully on the counter in order, from cheapest to most expensive. The Hispanic clerk looked as if he’d just come in from working on his car. His wife-beater tank was exposed behind a coral, short-sleeved linen shirt. The man was young, perhaps twenty-five, and muscled just enough to show he worked out, but not enough to take the stage at the Arnold Schwarzenegger International. Remington felt his pulse quicken.

  He let his eyes wander up to the magazines stashed out of the purview of children and found what he wanted… he waited until the clerk was on the last item and spoke while he flipped through his wallet. “Oh, and… one of those too, please.” Remington felt his lips go dry as he pointed.

  The clerk looked up at the dirty magazines, scanning across the lurid assortment. “Deez one?”

  Remington didn’t look up. “Mmhmm, yeah, sure.”

  The clerk shoved it into the paper sack and ticked out the total on the register.

  “Thirteen dollars and thirty-five cents.”

  Remington froze. Something was wrong. He always came here, he always got the same thing, and the total was always thirteen dollars and twenty-five cents. This wasn’t good… he always paid in cash, to make sure there was no trail of his… purchases.

  “I don’t think that’s right,” he stammered, “can you check it again?”

  The man tapped the keyboard a couple of times. “Ees right, señor. The owner raised zee price on zee hot dogs last week.”

  Remington stared at the exact change he’d placed in his wallet for this purchase. He eyed his debit card but decided against it—too much of a trail. He twirled his fingers in the penny cup by the register; four pennies. He was still six cents short.

  Dammit, he thought, maybe some change in the rental car.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said to the clerk and turned toward the door.

  A young man dressed from head to toe in white was standing at the door. Shit. Remington put his head down and bumped past the kid.

  “Well, g’day ta you too, mate,” he blurted as Remington’s shirt pulled on something as he brushed him.

  The kid let go of the door and entered the store in a huff. Remington’s eye caught the something that had fallen from the guy’s shirt and clicked on the ground. It was a name tag, from the Ritz-Carlton Tennis Garden on Key Biscayne, with the name Adrian “Taz” Hull printed on it. Now that was some interesting kismet. What the heck was… Taz… doing out here in Hialeah? He tucked the name tag into his pocket and hurried to his car.

  Taz brushed past the creepy dude at the door and wandered into the store. He had the munchies something fierce, which was normal, considering he’d just smoked the better part of a blunt with his buddy, Eduardo. He’d never smoked before coming to the states but was quickly introduced to the pastime by his local Miami buddies. He grabbed a full-sized bag of Bugles and a two-liter bottle of orange Fanta. He walked up to the counter, plopped the chips down, and started counting out pennies. As he counted, he noticed a bag next to the register with a magazine poking out the top. It read French Kittens across the top. Freaky-deeky, thought Taz, this guy’s a real creep show. He looked out the window and saw the guy rummaging around in his car. On the front bumper was a plate that said Biscayne Chariots. Odd, the dude has a rental car from Key Biscayne? Taz shrugged it off.

  “Probly a damn tourist,” he muttered as he paid for his drink and chips.

  “Nah, man,” the clerk startled him, “he’s been around before. Always buys zee same weird shit.”

  Taz looked back at the man, who was now staring at him through the hazy storefront door.

  “Fookin’ weirdo.” Taz looked away.

  He grabbed his stuff and hurried out the store. He didn’t like being stared at by some freak of nature. He was sure to keep his eyes down and not make any more eye contact with the man. He stumbled onto his bike and started the long ride back to the island.

  Sure enough, Remington found a quarter in the cup holder. He waited in the car until Taz had completed his purchase. Shit, shit, shit. The dude just looked right at him. He quickly looked away and pretended to play with the radio. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched him climb onto a bike that had been leaning outside the door. He hurried back into the Food Spot and tossed the quarter on the counter and grabbed his sack. The clerk started digging in his register for the change.

  “Keep it,” Remington said and practically dove for his car.

  He turned the key and cranked the engine. He flung the A/C knob all the way over; he was suddenly sweating bullets. Sticking out the top of the bag was his magazine. He felt the sudden urge to toss it out, but stopped
himself.

  “Ugh,” he muttered, putting his car into reverse. “Gram would be so disappointed.”

  Being careful to travel in the opposite direction than the kid from the store, he pulled into traffic and looked for another place to stop and… take care of business. He glanced at his watch. Still had over an hour to burn before the lab would have anything.

  6

  Daddy Dearest

  Mindy Colpiller sat at the massive grand piano tapping out the notes to chopsticks while her father, Jack Colpiller, spoke into his phone to the island police department. His voice was agitated, but not nearly agitated enough. His daughter was missing for Christ’s sake… didn’t he care? She could feel the buzz wearing off from the couple—or was it three?—Red Stripes with Troy on the beach. Any other time she would’ve been buzzing with the excitement of meeting an interesting man like Troy, but she still hadn’t heard from Caroline and it was approaching two days now. She had come in and demanded that her dad call the police.

  After reluctantly telling her he had a private investigator on it and that they should have some answers soon, he agreed to get the cops involved as long as he could keep the P.I. on the case too.

  “That’s fine, Daddy,” Mindy said, “do whatever you want, but we need to find Caroline!”

  Jack Colpiller poured what might’ve been his third bourbon and swirled it around his crystal highball glass.

  “Ah, hell, honey,” he said, and shrugged his shoulders and took a sip, “she’s probably off on some damn granola-munching road trip to drop acid and listen to a music festival in the mud.”

  Mindy glared at him. “She doesn’t do that anymore, Daddy. Not since she got rid of Chester… or whatever that dude’s name was.”

  “Well, hell,” he said and threw his arm up to the side, “if we don’t even know who her current man is, how in the world could we know where she might be?”

  Mindy thought for a second; her dad did have a point. Maybe Caroline was off on a joy ride somewhere. No, that didn’t make sense. She’d been trying to text and call for the last two days, and got no texts back and her calls went straight to voicemail. Her phone was either off or dead, one of the two.

  As if he was reading her mind, her dad said, “Remington tried to track the G.P.S. on her phone and got nothing. It must have died, and she’s out at Bonnaroo with no way to charge it or something. He’ll find her though. He’s the best in the business.”

  “Remington?” She arched an eyebrow.

  “The P.I.” he answered.

  “I know that, but… Remington? As in Steele?”

  “Remington Hoyt Reginald,” he said, “best in the biz. Does a lot of work for the office.”

  “Right.”

  Jack set his glass down and sat beside Mindy on the piano bench. He wrapped his arm around her and tapped a key.

  “Look, sweetie,” he said, “your sister’s going to be just fine. I have the best man in the business on her trail. She’s only been gone since… what… Friday night at, I don’t know, maybe six or seven o’ clock? So, it’s barely been two days.”

  Mindy nodded her head. An awkward silence fell between them.

  “Have you called mom?”

  Jack Colpiller inhaled, stood, and walked to the bar to fill his glass to the top with more bourbon.

  “I left a message at her office,” —he gulped his drink— “and told them it was an emergency. They said she told them I would say that.”

  “Ugh,” Mindy said, “what a bitch.”

  “Now, honey—” Jack started.

  Mindy’s cell phone chirped and she jumped, frantically clicking it on.

  “Caroline?” her father asked.

  She shook her head. “No, it’s Taz.”

  “Taz?”

  “Her tennis pro, Daddy.” Mindy rolled her eyes. “Don’t you know anything about your daughter at all?”

  Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Mindy, you know she does her own thing. I just pay the bills.”

  She shoved her phone into her back pocket.

  “Well, aren’t you going to answer him?” Jack asked. “Why’s he calling you?”

  “I do tennis lessons with him sometimes,” Mindy answered, “but he’s annoying as hell. He hasn’t stopped calling me since Saturday morning after…”

  Her voice trailed off. Something Troy had said drifted back into her mind. Taz was the last person to see Caroline before she went missing.

  “Daddy,” she blinked, “I think maybe Remington Steele should talk to Taz.”

  “It’s Remington Hoyt Reginald, honey.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she said, “but Taz may know something. She might’ve told him where she was going or whatever.”

  She didn’t say that Taz might’ve actually done something to her twin sister… something awful. She shivered at the thought.

  “Okay, honey,” Jack said, furrowing his brow, “I’ll call him in the morning.”

  Her phone chirped again. She pulled it out of her pocket. “What now, Taz? Geez!”

  The text wasn’t from Taz though, it was from Troy. Despite everything, she felt her heart flip. It was that buzz, that exhilaration, that thrill of excitement that came from meeting a new boy. But, God, this was no boy. Troy was a man. A beautiful, dark-haired, blue-eyed, strong—

  “Hun?” her dad interrupted her thought. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, Daddy.” She jumped up from the piano and pecked him on the cheek. “I’m gonna head to bed.”

  She skipped off to her room, leaving him standing alone.

  He looked down at his watch.

  “But it’s only eight o’clock,” he called out to no one.

  “Oh, dear God, please kill me,” groaned Remington Hoyt Reginald.

  His stomach growled and bubbled. Pain shot from his throat all the way down to his colon. He’d just picked up his evidence reports from the lab and was headed home. Traffic was at a standstill on the 112. There had been a massive accident on the Dolphin Expressway, and all the traffic heading into and out of the Miami International Airport had been rerouted. It felt like it had all been rerouted in front of him. And of all times to experience serious intestinal distress…

  “And to think,” —he cranked the air conditioning as high as it would go— “I paid extra for that damn hot dog.”

  His stomach lurched violently, causing him to squeeze his butt cheeks together as hard as he could.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus.” He rocked back and forth, breathing as slowly as he could.

  I’m going to shit my pants, he thought.

  “Damn you, Food Spot!” he yelled, making his stomach lurch again… this time lower in his belly.

  That hot dog was trying its hardest to escape. Remington had already rolled down the window to vomit once and the streaks of goo were crusting on the outside of the car. Sweat trickled down his forehead. The car in front of him eased forward and teased him that they might be moving a little faster again, but suddenly, it broke hard. He slammed on his brakes and the pressure from leaning into the seatbelt caused him to retch. He jerked his hand down for the window control, but he missed and got the rear window down just in time for him to vomit all on the inside of the driver door.

  “Dammit!” he yelled, causing his bowels to threaten to empty.

  He looked over at his bag from the Food Spot, searching for something to save him. His French Kittens magazine was peeking out of the top of the bag. A tiny seep of putrid air escaped his clenched buttocks and he knew what was coming next. The pain was so intense that he wasn’t sure if he could do what he was planning without making an awful mess of himself.

  He slowly opened his door as vomit dripped down onto the pavement. He eased his legs over the sill of the door, careful not to separate the cheeks. Unbuckling his belt, he began to shimmy his hideous cargo shorts down on his thighs out the door. Truth be known, he didn’t care if they did get crap all over them, but he didn’t have anything else to wear in the meantime. He’d
picked a really bad day to go commando.

  Another sharp pain, and he was standing in the road, horns blaring all around him in the traffic jam, half exposed to God and everybody, holding a French Kittens porno and with gunk and vomit all over his hand.

  He crouched, and let go, and felt blessed relief as his bowels spurted all over the road. The driver behind him was suddenly aghast at the scene, struggling to cover the eyes of the child in the back seat. Remington didn’t care. All he knew was that the liquid lava in his stomach was coming out… and coming out… and coming out. Good grief, it was only one hot dog. Why was there so much?

  He didn’t care. It felt soooo good to let it go. When he was finally certain he was finished, he wiped his soiled bottom with the fetish porn magazine and shoved it under his car. Pulling up his pants and waving apologies to the driver behind him, he slid back into the car.

  The cool air conditioning was amazing. He breathed out as traffic began to move faster.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” he wheezed.

  The inside of the car smelled awful, so he rode with the windows down. Thank the Lord and Gram he’d splurged on the rental car insurance.

  That’s when his phone dinged. New voicemail. He recognized the number and clicked to listen to the message.

  “Remi,” the message started.

  His hackles rose. Remi was a shortened version of his name that he despised. His Gram called him Remi and she was the only person allowed to call him that.

  “Jack Colpiller here,” it continued, “pertaining to my daughter’s disappearance. It has come to my attention that you may want to check out a fella named Taz or Tazzie. He’s a pro down at the Ritz’s tennis center. Okay, well, I know you’re busy and all, but update me when you can.”

  Remington’s memory tickled at the mention of the name. Taz? He’d seen that somewhere… The name tag. He tucked his hand into his pocket and pulled out the tag he’d picked up after that kid had so rudely bumped into him at the Food Spot.