by Tripp Ellis
The thug made a hard left at the next block and continued down the cobblestone sidewalk that was lined with palm trees. He crossed Oyster, darted past a few cafés, then cut across the street onto Fitzsimmons Drive.
There were more cobblestone sidewalks and antique lamp posts. He ran past more shops and street vendors, scurried across the street at the next intersection, and barreled north on Florence Street.
My chest heaved for breath as we shot past more storefronts and wide-eyed tourists. A burly dude with his girlfriend stuck out his leg and tripped the thug.
He ate the pavement, and his silver pistol skidded into the street. By the time he sprang to his feet, I tackled him back to the ground, crushing his ribs against the concrete.
He groaned as the air rushed from his lungs.
"Game’s over, scumbag!" I grabbed his wrist and wrenched his arm behind his back. I slapped the cuffs on without much trouble. Then I yanked the dipshit to his feet.
I thanked the tourist.
"Anytime."
I told him to stop by the station and get a commendation from the department—a little souvenir to bring home. He seemed excited about the proposition.
I read the dirt-ball his rights and dragged him back to Flanagan’s. It was a long walk and went by much slower than the initial chase. We both heaved for breath. I yanked the mask off his head. "You didn't think too much about what you were doing, did you?"
He glared at me.
"Are you new in town? Did you not know where you were walking into?"
"I ain’t saying shit to you."
"You’re lucky no one got hurt,” I said. “The last thing you want to do is kill a cop.”
4
We took the perps back to the station and filled out after-action reports. Chuck certainly wouldn’t miss those in retirement.
After we wrapped up, we hit Tide Pool to blow off a little steam. The energy from Chuck's retirement party had long since dissipated. He called it an early evening and went home.
JD and I sat with Denise at a patio table by the outside pool, watching scantily-clad beauties frolic. The smell of piña coladas and strawberry daiquiris drifted through the air. Girls splashed and giggled, their soaking wet bikinis clinging to sumptuous mounds, the fabric almost transparent.
"You’re pretty quick with that pistol," I said to Denise. “Is that the one I got you for Christmas?”
She grinned, and her emerald eyes sparkled. "It sure is. And just because I sit behind a desk all day doesn't mean I don't know how to use it."
"You could have gotten yourself killed," I said.
She frowned at me. "What was I supposed to do? Sit there and do nothing?”
I shrugged. "It's a good thing his buddy didn't start squeezing off rounds at you."
She made a pouty face. "Aw, is someone concerned?"
"I'm just looking out for my fellow deputy."
She rolled her eyes. "If anyone needs to exercise caution, it’s you two."
"Don't look at me," JD said. "He's the wildcard. Not me."
She scoffed, knowing better. "You’re both wildcards."
A guilty smirk curled on Jack’s lips. "No risk, no reward."
“Well, I took a risk, and it paid off.”
Jack lifted his glass, and we toasted.
We sipped our drinks and took in the atmosphere.
"Are you guys going to the fundraiser?" Denise asked.
"Hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought," JD said.
"It's black tie at the Seven Seas. Free drinks," she said in singsong.
Jack perked up. "Well, in that case, I might have to consider it."
"Stella Turner puts it on every year. I figure it's a good excuse to get all dolled up. I could use a chaperone or two."
Any excuse to see Denise in evening wear was a good thing. She cleaned up well. I imagined she dirtied up well too.
"I believe we can provide you a security escort," I said.
She chuckled. "I'm sure you can."
"What charity is this benefiting again?" JD asked.
"It’s that Coconut Key Forward Fund that the state attorney is involved with. They give grants to youth organizations, rehabilitation programs, that kind of thing. Community building."
"Get potential donors liquored up on the free drinks and have them open their checkbooks," JD said.
"Something like that."
"I'll be sure to leave my checkbook at home."
Denise scowled at him playfully. "Don't be a miser. You can give back to the community."
JD's face crinkled. "I give back to the community. I don't take a salary to do this job, and we put our lives on the line every day."
Denise rolled her eyes. “If you guys didn't do this, you'd invent new ways to skirt death on a daily basis.”
JD and I exchanged a sheepish glance. There was no argument there. We were both adrenaline junkies. The job fulfilled that need and had the added bonus of actually doing some good.
"When is it again?" I asked.
“Saturday night. 7 PM."
"It's a date," I said with a grin.
The sultry redhead gave me a suspicious glance. "I wouldn’t go that far."
“Can I get you guys another round?” a waitress asked as she sauntered by.
It didn’t take much persuasion.
“One more, then I turn into a pumpkin,” Denise said. “I gotta work tomorrow, and some of us actually need this job.”
The waitress returned a moment later with our drinks, and JD picked up the tab. We nursed the drinks for a while, then JD and I escorted Denise back to her banana yellow SUV.
Lights from the bars and restaurants bathed the street. Tipsy tourists wandered up and down the strip. Palm trees lined the avenue, and the smell of pizza and fajitas from street vendors wafted about. Music from live bands spilled onto the street. There was an average crowd for a weekday, but not the madhouse of the weekends.
We found Denise’s SUV parked on a side street. She gave us both a hug, and the sweet scent of her perfume filled my nostrils. She was definitely a good hugger.
"You boys behave," she said before hopping into the SUV.
“Not a chance,” JD replied.
We watched her pull away, then walked down the block toward Jack’s Porsche. He took a deep, contemplative breath. "You know, Chuck's retirement has got me thinking…"
"You’re not thinking about hanging this up, are you? You're not that old," I teased.
He gave me a friendly scowl. “No. I'm thinking you should retire before the fundraiser. Then you're free and clear to let the magic happen. I see the way you two look at each other. There's a palpable energy in the air when you two are in the same room together. Life is short. Screw departmental policy. You need to make it happen."
"She doesn't want a guy like me."
"Oh, yes, she does."
I shook my head. "No, she doesn't. You see what happens to the people that are close to me. There are people out there that want me dead. Elias Fink by way of Sophia Breslin."
"Denise is a big girl. She can take care of herself. She proved that today."
"Not taking the risk."
"How about you let her make that decision? What are you going to do? Keep everybody at arm's-length the rest of your life? Push away the people that care about you the most?
"If it keeps them alive, yes.”
“You do a damn good job of it. Or maybe you're just afraid to commit?"
I laughed. "You're one to talk."
Jack shrugged innocently. "I've committed six times."
"If you committed six times, then you didn't really commit, did you?”
His face crinkled. "Don't twist this around on me. We're psychoanalyzing you."
I laughed. "No we’re not.”
We hopped into the Miami Blue convertible 911 Turbo. JD cranked up the engine, and classic rock blasted from the speakers. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. The night air swirled around the cabin, blowing
his blond hair as we cruised across the island to the marina at Diver Down.
I thought about what he said. It brought up a complicated range of emotions. My past was out there stalking me. It would likely haunt me forever. At any moment, an assassin’s bullet could find me. And it wasn’t just Elias Fink or Sophia Breslin I had to worry about. There were plenty of bad actors out there that wanted to see me six feet under. And that list grew on a regular basis. It wasn’t just ghosts from my clandestine past. Every scumbag we put away created another person with a vendetta. I’d never be able to stop looking over my shoulder.
Maybe Chuck had the right idea—move to a secluded piece of property, settle in, live a simple, anonymous life. Of course, I’d have to start with a new identity and stay off the radar. I was no stranger to becoming invisible. I wouldn’t even tell Isabella, my handler at Cobra Company.
It was food for thought.
A thought that lasted half a second. Hiding out just wasn’t my style.
Eliminate all the bad guys… that seemed like a better option.
JD turned into the parking lot at Diver Down and pulled around to the dock. There was a little activity within the restaurant and bar.
I hopped out of the car and told him I'd catch up with him in the morning. He pulled away, and the engine howled as he disappeared into the night.
I ambled down the dock to the Avventura. Boats swayed in their slips, and the moon cast a pale glow over the marina. The calming sound of waves lapping against fiberglass hulls drifted through the air.
I crossed the passerelle to the aft deck of the superyacht and slid open the sliding glass door to the salon. I was greeted by an excited Jack Russell Terrier. Buddy bounced and barked. I knelt down and petted him and scratched his chin. I grabbed his leash and took him out for a walk before bed, then settled in for the evening.
Daniels called bright and early the next morning. Amber rays of sunlight blasted into my stateroom. I snatched the phone from the nightstand and swiped the screen. The sheriff's gruff voice filtered through the speaker, "Did you nitwits find some type of toxic waste in the ocean?"
"Yeah, what's going on?" I said in a scratchy, dry voice.
"I got a call from DEP. They sent a salvage crew to recover that barrel."
"They got on that fast."
"It seems they take that kind of thing seriously. Anyway, it contained a little more than toxic material. It's sitting in a warehouse at a containment facility. I need you and numb-nuts to get over there right now."
5
DEP had contracted with KNG Salvage. Among other things, they were a licensed hazmat removal and disposal operation. Fully bonded and insured and permitted with the state. They dealt mostly with boats that sank and had the potential to leak fuel and oil into the water. They weren’t the company to call if you had an oil tanker with a massive spill. But they were more than capable of pulling a steel drum out of the water and making sure its hazardous contents got disposed of in a way that didn't damage the environment.
The medical examiner's van was in the parking lot when we arrived. We parked the car, hopped out, and after a quick stop in the main office, we were directed to the scene. An employee named Thad escorted us toward a steel warehouse not far from the dock where a salvage tug was moored. The whole compound was surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire.
Thad was in his early 20s. He had a slender build and dark hair. His eyes were wide with excitement. "I've been working here a few years, and we’ve pulled a lot of things out of the ocean, but never anything like this."
Gulls squawked in the sky, floating on the draft. The sun glimmered on the water. Deckhands hustled about the salvage tug.
We walked through the open bay door of the warehouse. The flash of a camera bounced off the walls as a forensic photographer snapped photos of the contents of the barrel. He wore an industrial respirator and a white PPE suit. So did Brenda as she hovered over the container, peering inside.
"What have you got?" I asked as we approached.
The stench emanating from the barrel twisted my nose, and I quickly realized why they were wearing respirators.
"See for yourself," Brenda said, her muffled voice filtering through the mask.
I held my breath, stepped close, and leaned over the barrel.
My face soured.
I stepped away and filled my lungs with a breath of fresh air when I was in the clear.
JD gave a gander as well. Curiosity had gotten the best of him. He didn't linger long and joined me a few feet away from the barrel.
Crammed into the sludge-filled container was a skeleton.
Surrounded by black goo, the flesh had completely decomposed. The remains looked like something out of a horror movie. It was the kind of barrel that was never supposed to be opened. The kind of container that could start the zombie apocalypse. I halfway expected the gooey skeleton to climb out of the barrel and start gnawing on flesh.
Brenda pulled off her mask and joined us. "You guys find the strangest things."
"Tell me about it," I replied.
"She's been in there for some time."
"She?"
Brenda nodded. "Hard to say how long. Looks like there’s a serial number stenciled on the barrel. I’ll see if I can track down its origin. The warning label says it contains sodium hydroxide—a common chemical used in industrial settings. It would have dissolved the flesh rapidly, leaving the skeleton mostly intact. I'm going to go out on a limb and say she didn't get in that barrel all by herself."
"Somebody killed her, stuffed her in a barrel full of chemicals, and dumped her at sea," JD muttered. "They almost got away with it."
"You haven't caught them yet," Brenda snarked.
"It's early. Give it time." Jack smiled.
A slight chuckle escaped her lips. "I'll let you know what I find out."
We left the warehouse and walked back to the parking lot.
Paris Delany arrived with a news crew. They hopped out of the van, and the cameraman shouldered his rig and started filming. The sound guy ran behind the gorgeous blonde as she approached.
I stifled a groan.
“Deputy Wild, what can you tell us about the situation?”
“No comment,” I said, following JD’s previous advice.
“Is it true a body was discovered in a barrel?”
The camera focused in tight on me.
I climbed into the passenger seat of the Porsche, and JD cranked up the engine. I smiled and waved as we pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to the station.
Brenda had a lot of work to do. The chemical needed to be positively identified. Then the barrel needed to be moved to the medical examiner's office, the remains extracted and analyzed, then the waste disposed of.
After we filled out paperwork, I found Denise at her desk. Her perfectly manicured fingers clacked the keyboard. Phones rang, and the daily hustle of activity filled the air. Rays of sunlight filtered in through the blinds, and motes of dust swirled in the shafts. Deputies fielded complaints and processed perps.
JD grabbed a cup of coffee and brought one for me loaded up with cream and sugar. It was early, and the coffee relatively fresh.
“I heard about your discovery,” Denise said. “That's really creepy."
I agreed.
"How horrible. I couldn't imagine that. Do you think the girl was alive when she got stuffed into the barrel?"
"For her sake, I hope not."
“I’ll never understand why people do the things they do.”
“Search the records for missing females over the last couple of years.”
"Could you be more specific?"
"Not yet. Keep it broad. I just want to get a head start on this thing."
"Will do.”
Jack’s daughter called from Los Angeles. Scarlett shrieked into the phone. “Have you seen it?”
“Seen what?”
6
"The trailer for the Bree Taylor project is out!�
� Scarlett squealed. “I’m sending you a link. Watch it and call me back."
She hung up the phone, and a moment later, the text buzzed through. I clicked the link, and it took me to the clip. The logo for the studio flashed on the screen, and the trailer began.
I called JD over, and he huddled beside me, his eyes glued to the screen.
Scarlett had been cast as the lead in the film. It was based on the last three days of Bree Taylor’s life. Three days that I was in the middle of.
At the time of her death, Bree was topping the box office charts. She had it—the elusive quality that every aspiring actor desires. She was a classic movie star in every sense of the word. She had all the beauty and glamour of old-school Hollywood. Ironically, her death cemented her as an icon that would be remembered for generations.
Scarlett filled her shoes well.
They couldn’t have cast a better actress in the role.
Scarlett was breathtaking when she appeared on screen, and her likeness to Bree was stunning. Her hair and makeup were done to perfection, and the features of her face were contoured to look more like Bree.
I had been on set during several days of filming and watched on the video monitors. Her resemblance sent chills up my spine at the time. Now, watching the final product, it was even more remarkable. She had studied Bree’s mannerisms and embodied the star perfectly. Every nuance, every smirk, every flick of the hair and bat of the eyelashes.
She was Bree.
The trailer ended, and the title flashed on the screen. The studio had kicked around a number of titles—Death on the Riviera, The Last Icon, Fatal Blonde.
They finally settled simply on Bree.
It appeared on screen in a beautiful script font—carefree, almost whimsical.
JD beamed with pride at his daughter's accomplishment. "That kid is going places."
If the movie was half as good as the trailer, it would be a hit. I had sold the story to the studio and was due a nice chunk of residuals on the backend. But more than that, I wanted Scarlett to achieve success. This was a pivotal moment in her career.
