Wild Case Read online

  Wild Case

  Tyson Wild Book Ten

  Tripp Ellis

  Contents

  Welcome

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Author’s Note

  Tyson Wild

  Max Mars

  Connect With Me

  Copyright © 2019 by Tripp Ellis

  All rights reserved. Worldwide.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental, and not intended to refer to any living person or to disparage any company’s products or services. All characters engaging in sexual activity are above the age of consent.

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, uploaded, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter devised, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  1

  “Dude, you’re not gonna believe this,” Jack said with a sly grin on his face.

  Music pumped through the Vivere, filling the super-yacht with pop music. Bass boomed, rumbling my chest. Tanned hotties bounced in rhythm to the beat in barely-there bikinis, their pert assets jiggling. Wardrobe malfunctions weren’t uncommon. Red plastic drink cups dangled from svelte fingers with perfectly manicured nails. There were copious amounts of blondes, brunettes, and redheads. Several girls lay on sun pads on the foredeck, topless, rubbing oil onto each other’s skin. The brilliant sun glistened on their slick bodies.

  This was truly paradise.

  We hadn’t even left the dock yet.

  The sky was clear, and the weather was perfect. We had invited all of our neighbors to the party in order to minimize complaints, but I was sure we would still get a few from the more uptight members of the community.

  Jack had pulled out all the stops and even hired a catering company to serve drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Initially, he had suggested the blowout as one last bash aboard the yacht before we had to sell it. Thankfully, our fortunes had changed, and as far as I was concerned, the Vivere wasn’t going anywhere. It looked like we would be able to hold on to the opulent vessel for a little while longer.

  JD gripped a beer, and his open Hawaiian shirt fluttered in the breeze. He wore a pair of dark old-school Ray Bans, and his long hair dangled past his shoulders.

  “What am I not going to believe?” I asked, shouting over the music.

  “We are officially judges in the next Miss Coconut Key beauty pageant.” Jack couldn’t contain himself.

  “That sounds like fun. How did you swing that?”

  “I agreed that we would be the official pageant photographers. That’s the kind of work I don’t mind doing. Just a few headshots, and shots of the winners with their crowns. Maybe even some bikini shots.” He grinned again.

  “How does that work? What is the judging criteria?”

  His face twisted, looking at me like I was crazy. “We pick the hottest one. Duh!”

  “I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”

  “Well, yeah. There’s the interview portion, the swimsuit competition, and the evening gown competition. They all have these causes that they are passionate about. So, we pick the hottest one who has the best cause. I mean, it’s a beauty pageant after all.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Remember our client? Coconut Cream Sunscreen? They are sponsoring the event. Should be fun.”

  I could think of worse things to do with my time than judge a beauty pageant.

  “The downside is we can’t bang any of the contestants,” JD said. “That would be crossing some kind of ethical line.”

  “You have ethical lines?” I asked, my voice full of sarcasm.

  His eyes narrowed at me.

  A girl within earshot of Jack groaned. “I think beauty pageants are disgusting. It places too much emphasis on external beauty. It reinforces the belief that a woman’s only value is in her appearance.”

  The girl was smoking hot. Tanned skin, red string bikini, curly dark hair, and abs you could bounce a quarter off. Her makeup was done to perfection. Judging by the amount of time she spent in the gym, this was a girl who clearly cared about her appearance.

  Jack turned to face her and smiled. “I can understand why you feel that way, but the pageant system provides valuable exposure, both personally and professionally. Contestants gain confidence and develop a support network. They have to clearly articulate their views on complex issues. The stress and pressure of competition trains them to handle more pressure in their daily lives. They champion positive initiatives and become role models by volunteering, fundraising, and advocating for worthy causes.”

  It was a surprisingly cogent answer from Jack.

  He continued, “I bet you’d win for sure if you competed.”

  She smiled. ”You think?”

  “I don’t know you very well, but you seem like a beautiful person inside.”

  “Aw, you’re sweet.”

  “What do you do for a living?” JD asked.

  “I’m a swimsuit model.”

  I left Jack alone to sort out the merits of beauty pageants with his new debate partner and strolled into the salon for another drink. The bartender twisted the top of a long neck, and the bottle hissed. He handed me the cold beverage, dripping with condensation, and I strolled through the salon to the aft deck.

  An older woman, mid-70s, graying hair, strolled across the gangway. She looked confused and out-of-place amid the young scantily clad bodies. She held onto the rail as she stepped to the deck.

  I approached and asked, “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m not sure if I’m in the right place. I’m looking for Tyson Wild.”

  She held a large manila envelope in her hand. I was always leery of people holding documents, asking if I was Tyson Wild.

  I hesitated, then smiled. “You found him. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m hoping you can help me. I’ve got nowhere else to turn. I’m out of options.”

  2

  A shot glass of tequila, wedged tight between voluptuous breasts, brimmed with amber liquid. Tempestuous, like a tiny ocean, a portion crested the rim and dripped down the side of the glass, disappearing into a glorious valley of flesh. The bosom owner arched her chest, serving the shot to a stunning redhead.

  Without using her hands, the redhead’s full lips surrounded the rim of the glass. She tilted her head back
and poured tequila down her throat.

  The onlookers erupted with cheers and hollers.

  The redhead gasped with satisfaction, took a bow, then handed the shot glass back to Bosoms, who held a lime between her lips. The redhead sensually bit into the lime and pulled it away.

  More cheers and hoots.

  The bosom owner promptly wiped away the redhead’s lipstick from the glass, refilled it, then placed it back between her breasts, ready for the next in line.

  The older woman who came to see me looked uncomfortable. She watched the debaucherous affair with wide eyes, cleared her throat, then asked, “Is there somewhere more private we can talk?"

  "Sure,” I said.

  I escorted her off the boat, and we strolled down the dock to Diver Down. We pushed inside, and the usual cast of characters sat at the bar—including Harlan.

  Despite having one arm in a cast, Madison slung drinks like a pro. She barely acknowledged me as I entered. I was back on her bad side again after the accident.

  I found a table in the corner that overlooked the water and we took a seat.

  “Sorry, sometimes our parties get a little out of hand,” I said.

  "I see that. I guess you should enjoy it while you can."

  I smiled. "So, how can I help you?”

  "My daughter, Samantha. You haven't been with the Sheriff’s Department long enough to remember the case but she was…" Her eyes welled, and she had a hard time getting the words out. She finally just said it, blurting it out. "Samantha was raped and murdered in 1986."

  My brow lifted with surprise.

  "I know. It's a long time ago. But I still don't have any answers. I saw what you were able to do with the Sandcastle Killer, and I thought if anybody can find out who killed my Samantha, it's you."

  She unclasped the envelope and pulled out a stack of photos and documents. ”The case is still open, but there hasn’t been any movement in years. There were a few leads, but nothing ever materialized.”

  On top of the stack of papers was a photo of her daughter. It was her senior picture. Samantha was a pretty girl. Her hair was parted in the middle and feathered on the side in typical '80s fashion.

  The photos underneath weren’t so pretty—black and white images of the crime scene.

  “The body was found under the pier at Taffy Beach. Samantha was naked. Her clothes were missing. The only thing found near her body were her shoes and a cigarette butt which could have been anybody's. I don't think she smoked. At least, not on a regular basis." The woman shrugged. “Maybe here and there? You never know what kids do.”

  I surveyed the horrid pictures. Samantha’s body lay underneath the pier surrounded by sand that had been stained blood red.

  “She was stabbed in the neck several times after being…” She couldn’t bare to say it again.

  I grimaced.

  “How old was your daughter at the time?”

  “She had just turned 18.”

  "What about DNA evidence?"

  "They swabbed her for, you know…” The words got caught in her throat. “The rape kit was sent to the lab, but it never came back. Got lost in the shuffle."

  "That was before DNA really came into its own. There have been a lot of advancements since then. It's too bad that's missing."

  "Honestly, I don't know what is still in evidence, if anything."

  "I can check," I said.

  She seemed somewhat relieved that I was willing to look into it. “I never introduced myself. I’m Florence Baxter.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”

  "Thank you. So, do you think you can look into this?"

  "I don't know what I can accomplish, but I'll try. It was a long time ago. Memories fade. Witnesses die."

  "I've been living with this for so long. I just want closure." She looked at me and tried to hide a frown.

  "I understand.”

  A waitress strolled by the table. She flashed a bright smile and asked, “Can I get you anything to drink?"

  Mrs. Baxter shook her head. "No, thank you. Nothing for me."

  "We're fine, thank you."

  The waitress smiled, spun around, and sauntered to another table.

  “What can you tell me about the night of the incident?”

  Florence took a deep breath. She had to dig back into some painful memories, and it showed on her face. “Samantha was here with friends on spring break. We’re from Texas.”

  “Do you remember who she was with?”

  “How could I forget? Kim and Robin.”

  “So, tell me what happened.”

  “According to the girls, they went out for the evening at the Bait Station. I don’t know if that bar even exists anymore.”

  “It’s still on Oyster Avenue.”

  “Apparently they had been going to the same bar for a few nights, and I guess there was a little flirting going on between Samantha and the bartender. This is what her girlfriends tell me. They wanted to go to another bar, but Samantha wanted to stay. She was supposed to meet up with them later back at the hotel. Kim and Robin left and went to Reefers. After that they went back to the hotel. They figured maybe Samantha had—how do the kids say it now—hooked up with the bartender? They didn’t get too worried until the morning. Their flight was leaving in the afternoon and they hadn’t heard from Samantha. That’s when they started to get concerned.” Her eyes brimmed, and she broke down in brief sobs.

  “I know this is difficult.”

  She wiped her eyes, recomposed herself, and continued. “Her body was discovered by a tourist on the beach.”

  “Was it unusual for Samantha to hook up with someone she just met?”

  Mrs. Baxter’s face tensed. “I don’t know. We were close, and I knew she was having sex. I’m sure she didn’t tell me everything, or how often.”

  “Did she have a steady boyfriend back home?”

  “She had just broken up with him.”

  “Was he ever considered a suspect?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He wasn’t in Florida at the time. At least, not as far as I know.”

  “But he wasn’t pursued as a suspect?”

  “No.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Cliff Burke.”

  “Do you know if he’s still alive?”

  “I don’t know. I would assume.”

  “Do you know if he still lives in the same area?”

  “I don’t. Sorry.”

  “Did anyone see Samantha leave the Bait Station with the bartender?”

  “I believe there were some witnesses who made a statement to that effect. It should all be in the files. That’s everything I have.”

  “I’ll see what we have on file down at the station.”

  “Thank you.” She paused. “Well, I don't want to take up any more of your time," Mrs. Baxter said. "I know you have much more enjoyable things you could be doing.”

  “How long are you in town for?”

  “Just a few days. I can stay longer if you need me to. It’s been really hard over the years. We’re not in the area, and I think it’s easy for law enforcement to forget about our case. I used to call and put pressure on the department on a regular basis, but over the years it has just seemed pointless. Like I said, when I saw the news story about you, I thought maybe I’d give this one more try. You’re my last hope. And I’d really like to put this to rest before I go to my grave.”

  I forced a grim smile. “I’ll do my best, Mrs. Baxter.”

  We exchanged numbers, and I said I'd keep her updated on the situation. I took the file and watched Florence exit. After hearing a gruesome story like that, I wasn’t much in the mood to party. It happened so long ago, and justice was never served. I knew the case was going to gnaw at me. But I also knew the odds of solving it were slim to none.

  I pushed away from the table and strolled toward the exit. Madison called to me on my way past the bar. “Hey, Tyson. You got a minute
? I need to talk to you.”

  3

  I leaned my elbows against the bar. "What's up, sis?"

  "I'm finally going to take that vacation,” Madison said.

  "That's great. You need a break. You really shouldn't even be working yet."

  She sighed. ”I can't sit around here and do nothing."

  "So, you're going to the mountains to do nothing?”

  "Yeah, something like that." She wiped down the bar with a rag. "You really don't have to do much while I'm gone. I've already talked to Alejandro. He'll look after everything. He knows what to order and how to keep the place stocked. I just need you to make sure the money gets deposited, and the bills get paid. Do you think you can handle that?"

  "No problem," I said. "How long are you going for?"

  Madison shrugged. "I'm going to play it by ear and see how I feel. Maybe a week? Maybe two? Maybe longer?"

  I arched a curious eyebrow.

  "I need to do some soul-searching. I've been living my entire life just for me. I can't do that anymore. I've got other people to think about," she said putting her hand on her baby bump.

  I could tell she had a lot on her mind. She hadn’t quite been the same since the accident, and who could blame her? It was a close call, and I think it had rattled her to the core. I felt like she had more she wanted to say, but she left it at that.

  "You know I'm here for whatever you need," I said.