The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  “That’s a good one,” Chris said, “I always did like that one.”

  “Me too.”

  The song on the radio changed and Chris started singing along.

  In his head, Brant did too. He always did like The Old Rugged Cross.

  18

  Dead Zone

  When the shock of what had just happened slowly ebbed away, and the light of day began to stream into the lighthouse’s windows, Mindy Colpiller began to assess her current situation. Her hands were bound with a shoestring, her mouth was covered with a strip of duct tape, and her throat was parched and dry. It was cool now in the early morning, but she knew as the sun rose higher that the window-surrounded room of the lighthouse would become a super-hot greenhouse. The windows were about six feet above the floor, so even when she stood up she couldn’t see above the wall out to the ocean and the island behind. Her hands ached from being bound so tightly, and her lips were raw from rubbing up and down on the tape.

  Exploring the room brought almost nothing of value. An old box marked OIL, a trap door style hatch that had no handle on the inside, and her. That was it. The room smelled awful and rank, like something rotting. She noticed that the smell seemed to be coming from the oil box, and thought maybe some left over fuel had gone bad, or a rat had died inside, or something like that—but the box looked new, likely a reproduction, with a brand-new Stanley padlock holding the lid tight.

  Upon closer examination, she noticed that one of the hinges on the box’s lid was slightly loose and a corner of it jutted out a little. Inspiration hit, and she crouched down, turning her back toward the loose hinge. She was able to feel for it and get it lined up with the shoelace holding her wrists together.

  Slowly, she put the string against the bottom of the hinge, and jerked upward. It seemed to snap back against her wrist, but she couldn’t tell if it was damaging it or not.

  She continued pulling the string against the hinge, over and over again. It seemed like she’d worked for hours with no discernible result, but then she felt it… a small fray in the string. Strands were starting to come loose, and it gave her the incentive to keep working, keep cutting, keep—

  Suddenly the string snapped, and she tumbled backward over the box, pulling it over with her. The hinge broke loose from the lid and her hands were free. She tore the duct tape from her face, sat upright, and rubbed her red raw wrists gently, easing the circulation back into her fingers.

  Immediately, she jumped over to the hatch in the floor. It was just a two-foot by two-foot opening with no handle on the inside. She tried desperately to get her fingers into the edge and pull up on it, but all she accomplished was demolishing her fingernails and causing her thumbs to bleed. She kicked hard on the trap door with one foot, and then jumped up and down on it with both feet… knowing that if it somehow broke loose, she could potentially go tumbling through and down the stairs of the lighthouse. But it would not give way. She was truly trapped.

  Sweat had formed on her forehead and started to drip down her nose… the heat was coming. She followed the shadow around the room, sitting in the shade as the hours ticked by and her thirst grew.

  Finally recovered from her exertion, she began to wonder about the only other contents of the room… the box. She noticed that the lid had opened slightly on the side where the hinge had fallen off. She also came to the conclusion that the box wasn’t empty, as it hadn’t sounded hollow when she tumbled over it.

  She walked over to the box and tried to lift it back upright… it was really heavy. Definitely not empty. She tucked her sore fingers into the small crack by the broken hinge and pulled. It didn’t give at all—the other hinge apparently strong enough to hold it closed. She tugged harder, wedging the broken hinge into the opening, but it still didn’t budge.

  “Dammit!” she called out to the empty room, and only an echo replied.

  It was getting really hot now, so she shoved and heaved the box until it was closer to the wall and in the shade. She slumped down beside it and caught her breath. She needed to see inside that box. There might be something she could use to get the hell out of there. Her eyes lit on the hinge shining on the floor in the center of the room. She glanced back at the box and the remaining hinge. It was held on by three small slotted head screws. Inspiration hit again.

  She almost dove toward the hinge on the floor, grabbed it, and ran back to the box. Turning it sideways gave her a small, flat edge that she could use as a makeshift screwdriver on the other hinge… but the screws were tight.

  “Ugh,” Mindy grunted, “of all the damn times for something to be well made.”

  She continued to work on the first screw, but then switched to the middle one. It turned. She turned it again and again, and finally it fell free and clinked to the floor. She wiped the sweat from her cheeks and started on the last screw.

  A few minutes later, she sat as far away from the box as she could in the lighthouse, arms wrapped around her knees. The lid was wrenched open exposing the contents. Tears streamed down through the sweat and grime on her face. She’d found her twin sister.

  When the line went dead, Joe Bond punched a button on the tracer machine, turning it off. He connected a USB cord to it and then to his laptop. He typed in a code that Chris Collins at the C.I.A. had given to him, and waited. A window opened in a browser and Joe watched as it connected to a database of information that was very likely classified. Then the tracer machine started to flash, and a sound that reminded Joe of an old telephone modem started beeping out of it.

  Thousands of letters and numbers flashed across the screen like a scene from The Matrix, and Joe watched as it opened another window showing a map of the United States. The lines of code continued to scramble on the side while the map zoomed in, quicker at first, then slower and slower. It finally stopped at street level, and a flashing red dot appeared on the screen.

  An apartment building in Liberty Square.

  “That looks about right,” Joe said out loud.

  “Beg pardon?” Jack Colpiller was perched on the edge of his chair. “Did you find him?”

  “We got him,” Joe confirmed.

  He pushed a button and his printer whirred to life. It soon spat out a sheet of paper, and Joe grabbed it.

  Jack jumped up too. “Mr. Colpiller,” he said and held up a hand, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to wait here. This is a very dangerous situation and I can’t have you anywhere near this guy.”

  “But these are my daughters,” Jack said in a raised his voice.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Joe was walking out the door in a rush. “Please, wait here. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

  Jack Colpiller was left alone in the office. “Well, I’m sure as shit not waiting here,” he said out loud, and stuck his head into the hall. He looked left, then right.

  “Troy?” he called.

  Joe Bond’s cruiser screeched into the apartment building’s parking lot, a second and third cruiser whizzing in behind him. He leapt out of his car and barked a few commands to the other officers. He sent some to the front entrance, some to the back, and still others to the street side of the building where the unit’s balconies faced.

  Punching a button for the elevator, he smelled the obvious odor of a skunk. Damn things are everywhere this time of year.

  The doors slid open and he stepped in… the smell was stronger inside… almost gaggingly strong. By the time he reached the first floor, he was holding his breath. He practically jumped out of the elevator into the lobby and inhaled deeply. Good God, it was strong. One must’ve got into the building.

  He jogged over to the wall holding the mailboxes for each unit. There were twenty-four of them, six units on each floor, four floors. The other uniformed officers came in from different doors, leaving one partner to cover the door while the other would search with Joe.

  “Greg, you’ve got the first floor. Derek, you’re on two. I’ll take three, If we haven’t got him by then,” Joe di
rected them, “we’ll hit the fourth floor together. Got it?”

  They all nodded. Greg started to push the elevator door and Joe stopped him.

  “I’d take the stairs if I were you,” he said, “the skunk smell is strong in there.”

  He found the smell in the stairwell to be almost as bad.

  Greg made quick work of the first floor. Everyone was home, nobody was Taz. Second floor was the same. Derek reported they were all as old as Methuselah’s balls. Joe went door to door on the third floor, finding four units occupied by people who clearly weren’t Taz, one unit empty, open, and obviously vacant. The last was locked, with its owner apparently not home—the skunk smell was stronger than ever outside the last door. No wonder there’s nobody home, Joe thought.

  He banged on the door more forcefully.

  “Miami P.D.,” he called loudly. “Open up!”

  No answer.

  From behind him he heard a voice that could only be described as a cross between the Wicked Witch of the West and Golem from Middle Earth.

  “He’s not home, sonny,” she screeched, “so quit yer bangin’. I’m tryin’ to sleep over here!”

  Joe turned to see an old woman, who wasn’t far off actually looking like Golem, pointing a bony E.T. finger at the door he was knocking on.

  “Left a few minutes ago,” she added.

  “You know who lives here?” Joe asked.

  “Course I do,” she said, licking her thin, wrinkly lips, “I own the building.”

  “Adrian Hull?” he asked her, stepping away from the reeking door.

  “Eh?” She shook her head, clearly confused. “Nah, nobody living here by that name. That’s Remington’s place.”

  “Remington?”

  “Yeah, Remington Reginald.”

  Joe stopped short. This was an interesting development.

  He opened his phone to call the station.

  19

  Walk In My Shoes

  Troy Bodean sat with his court-appointed lawyer at a conference table across from the Judge, Linda Big Boobs Morgenstern, and her slick-back-haired attorney.

  Troy was certain this wouldn’t end well for him. He had tried—in vain—to get someone to get Joe Bond in there to vouch for him and explain the situation. The judge, who actually stared more at Linda’s big boobs than anyone else at the table, seemed completely disinterested in the case… but wanted to extend the afternoon so that he could ogle the woman more.

  “So, Mr. um” … The judge looked down at a piece of paper in front of him.

  “Bodean,” Troy said.

  “Yes,” the judge said, and looked over his reading glasses, “Mr. Bodean. What you’re telling me is that you were invited to look at Mrs. Morgenstern by a security officer at the Ritz-Carlton while she was um…” He searched the paper again. “Taking a tennis lesson?”

  “Yessir,” Troy said quickly. “You see, she was playing tennis and then Billy—”

  “Billy?” the judge interrupted.

  “The security guard at the Ritz-Carlton.”

  The judge made a note on his pad and then looked up at Linda and smiled.

  Troy glanced over at her. She was actually wearing what looked like a tennis outfit… a tennis outfit a stripper might wear. Her voluminous breasts looked as if they might topple out of her top at any moment. Troy turned back to the judge. Did he just lick his lips? Terrible time for justice not to be blind, he thought.

  “Yes,” Troy continued, and the judge’s eyes snapped back to him. “You see, Billy had stopped me on the way into work and said I had to check somethin’ out. He pointed me to the hedge at the tennis courts.”

  “The hedge?” the judge asked.

  Troy nodded.

  “At the tennis courts?”

  “Yup.”

  He looked back at Linda. “So you were in public when the alleged peeping took place, Mrs. Morgenstern?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but her attorney touched her arm to stop her.

  “The Ritz-Carlton Tennis Garden provides its guests with the expectation of full privacy when they are on the grounds,” the attorney said.

  Troy’s attorney said nothing. He pulled a document from his briefcase and slid it to the judge.

  The judge read over it and looked over his glasses at Linda’s attorney. “The tennis facility is apparently zoned as public property,” he said, sliding the document toward Linda’s attorney.

  “My client will be leaving now.” Troy’s attorney stood up and pulled Troy up by his elbow. “Good day to you, Judge.”

  Troy stood, not exactly sure what was happening, but eager to get out of there.

  Linda Morgenstern stuck out her bottom lip and pouted. Her attorney looked dumbstruck.

  “Mr. Bodean is free to go,” the judge said.

  “But, your honor,” Linda protested.

  “Now, Mrs. Morgenstern,” he said, and held out a hand to touch hers, “let’s proceed to the more important matter.”

  She looked confused, but also smiled a little at the judge’s touch. She batted her eyelashes quickly and leaned forward, exposing more cleavage. “What matter is that?” she asked.

  “Billy,” he said.

  She cocked her head sideways, like a puppy who didn’t understand what its master was saying.

  “The security guard at the Ritz,” the judge said from beneath furrowed eyebrows, “he’s the one to blame here. Why, if I have anything to do with it, that young man will not only lose his job, I’ll throw the book…”

  Troy didn’t hear the last of what the judge said as his attorney practically pushed him out of the conference room.

  “Okay, Mr. Bodean,” —his attorney stuck out his hand— “you’re free to go.”

  Troy took his hand. “Like, Gone, Baby Gone? Audi 5000 free?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, “like Escape from Alcatraz free, or Free Fallin’.”

  Troy smiled broadly. “Thanks Mr. uh…”

  “Steakley,” his attorney said, “John Steakley.”

  “Thank you, kindly, Mr. Steakley,” Troy said, “but I just need to know one more thing.”

  “Sure, Mr. Bodean,” John said and shrugged his shoulders, “what’s that?”

  “You got any idea where they’re keepin’ my hat?” he asked. “I gotta get to work.”

  Joe Bond was thunderstruck by the discovery that Taz’s cell phone was somehow at the apartment of Remington Reginald (the private investigator Jack Colpiller had hired to find his missing daughter). Whatever connection existed there, he couldn’t figure it out. But that was going to have to wait. Another development had just exploded in the case. When Joe called in to report his findings at the apartment building, Ted—a crime lab tech—had insisted that he needed to speak with the detective… he had a bombshell in the Colpiller case.

  Joe took the call as his cruiser pulled out of the apartment garage. He left Derek and Greg there to wait for Remington to return.

  “Go ahead, Ted,” he said to the tech.

  “Okay,” said Ted, sounding out of breath, “so, you remember that we found secondary blood in the car?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s definitely one of the Colpiller girls. Likely Caroline, since it’s her car.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “Well, we also removed the mats and tested those. In fact, we were able to get a partial shoe print in blood from the driver’s side mat. We didn’t see it earlier because the interior was black.”

  A car honked behind Joe. The light in front of him had changed, but he hadn’t noticed. He pulled out quickly. “Get to the point, Ted,” he said.

  “Okay, so, we tested that blood,” Ted continued. “Same as the steering wheel. Caroline’s. And that would’ve been the end of it… except for when the shoe came in.”

  “Which shoe?”

  “The shoe that made the print.”

  “Where did this shoe come in from?”

  “A bum had it in his cart. He was causing a ruckus
down by the old lighthouse, beating on the door, screaming at everybody walking by.”

  “Okay, and…”

  “Well, as we were checking in his possessions—all one-hundred sixty-nine of them—we noticed this single shoe. The sole was covered with blood… like, a lot of blood. Oh, and there was a lot of sand inside the shoe… maybe from being down in the water.”

  Joe was having trouble connecting all the dots. “So, Ted,” he said, shrugging to no one, “what exactly have we got. I’m not following.”

  “We have the shoe of Caroline’s killer.”

  The pieces suddenly snapped together.

  “Holy moly,” Joe said and sucked his teeth, “nice work, Ted. Email me the particulars on that shoe and the tests.”

  Another call beeped in. Joe took the phone from his ear and saw it was Jack Colpiller.

  “Shit,” he said, putting it back to his ear, “I gotta take this. Thanks, Ted.”

  He started to click over, but then something jumped into his thoughts.

  “Ted, wait,” he said quickly, “the shoe. What’s it look like?”

  “Oh, well,” the tech said, “it’s a white tennis shoe. A right one.”

  “Hot damn,” Joe said, clicking the phone over to talk to Jack, but he was already gone.

  He flipped the switch to turn his sirens on and raced south toward Key Biscayne. He didn’t know where Taz was, but the last place he’d actually been seen was at the Tennis Garden at the Ritz. He slammed the gas pedal to the floor. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he got there, but it was the only place he knew to start.

  Troy jumped off the bus at the stop nearest to the Ritz-Carlton at Key Biscayne. He’d been mildly surprised to find that Joe was gone from the police station and that Jack had gone home as well… leaving him stranded. He glanced at his phone to check the time. Dangit, he thought, Don’s gonna be pissed.