Designed to Kill (Greg McKenzie Mysteries)

by Chester D. Campbell

  I wasn’t certain, but the part about wanting to run for the legislature made it pretty clear Sherry Hoffman was the date Farnsworth had mentioned taking to the party, the real estate woman he had talked about with Harold Nixon.

  “Do you know if she left The Sand Castle with Tim Friday night after the accident?” Jill asked.

  Farnsworth sat back, folded his arms, took a deep breath. His look hardened. “No. He left before I did, shortly before eleven. She wasn’t with him. You’ve talked to her, of course.” His tone was returning to normal, and the message was clear—he knew. He had already talked to her.

  “We visited with Miss Hoffman yesterday,” I said, nodding. “She was quite forthcoming.” Let him stew over that one, I thought. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Farnsworth. We may be back in touch later.”

  He didn’t offer his hand as I got up. Jill and I headed for the door.

  24

  On the drive back to Perdido Key, we were overtaken first by a fire truck screaming by on the way to God-knows-where. Then a boxy ambulance of the Escambia Emergency Medical Service raced around us, its siren wailing. About the time we departed the Pensacola city limits, a sheriff’s patrol car appeared in the rear-view mirror and stayed on our tail all the way to Blue Angel Parkway. I began to wonder if Sergeant Payne had called out the reserves to keep watch on my wanderings.

  When we weren’t commenting on the sirens and red and blue lights, Jill and I discussed the meeting with Boz Farnsworth. First I congratulated her on another sterling performance. “You were great, babe. We’re beginning to click like an old vaudeville team.”

  “Fibber McGee and Molly?”

  I laughed. “Maybe a magic act. You’re pulling rabbits out of the hat that I’d’ve had a hard time coming up with.”

  “Good. I want my share of the profits.”

  “What is fifty percent of zero?”

  She gave me a smug look. “Okay. I’ll settle for an extra hour at the Wheel of Fortune machines in Biloxi.”

  I grinned. We had emptied two quarter Wheel of Fortune machines on our last trip to the Mississippi coast casinos. Though we enjoyed playing the slots, we weren’t serious gamblers. We always carried a few hundred dollars, and that was our limit. If we came back with more than we took, so much the better. Otherwise, we figured we had gotten our money’s worth. As recreation, it was a lot cheaper than what some of our friends spent on going to the Titans’ games.

  “Deal,” I said.

  After a brief silence, she asked, “What’s your take on Mr. Boz?”

  “He did his best to paint Tim as the guilty party. I’m not sure he really believes it. He knows he should have caught that error when it happened, regardless of what the plans showed.”

  “He made Detrich sound like Mr. Rogers in the neighborhood.”

  “That was an obvious lie. Remember what Walt said? But why would Boz lie about Detrich?”

  Jill spread her palms. “I don’t know. But I would say there is definitely something between Bosley Farnsworth and Sherry Hoffman. It’s beginning to look like the eternal triangle.”

  “You think he was jealous of Tim?”

  “If he wasn’t, he sure did a good job of making it look that way.”

  I glanced around at her. “That would add another suspect with a motive to shoot Tim. The field is getting crowded.”

  ———

  We arrived back at Gulf Sands around noon. I needed to talk with Walt Sturdivant and called Nashville while Jill fixed sandwiches for lunch. I had a hunch about Mr. O’Keefe, and following up hunches had solved many a case during my career.

  “This is Greg,” I said when Walt picked up the phone. “I got your message about the guys who left New Horizons. This Ollie O’Keefe, what age fellow was he?”

  “Just a kid. Early twenties. He seemed pretty competent, though.”

  “Well, I have some questions about the areas of his competence.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just a hunch I plan to look into. Can you check back and see if he listed a previous employer?”

  “Sure. I’ve still got his file on my desk. Hang on a second.” He was back in a moment with, “Paige and Wilson Contractors in New Orleans.” He spelled it out for me. “Will that be any help?”

  “I hope so. Another question. You mentioned something yesterday about Boz’s plans calling for the wrong strength concrete. I presume that would have had an impact on the balcony.”

  “You’re damned right. It would have cracked much easier. And it would have cost a lot less. Detrich saved a bundle of money on concrete and steel on that job.”

  “Had any luck unscrambling the hard disk on the laptop?”

  “I called a place that said they should be able to handle it. Haven’t had time to get the machine over there yet. That’s the next thing on my agenda.”

  “Good luck,” I said. “Keep me informed.”

  ———

  After lunch, I got back on the phone, this time with Paige and Wilson Contractors in New Orleans. I told the woman who answered that I was with an employment agency and needed to verify the employment of someone who had worked there a few years ago.

  “I don’t know how far back our records go,” she said. “I’ll let you talk to Maria.”

  Maria came on with a heavy Spanish accent. After I repeated my employment counselor routine, she speculated that the name might still be in the computer. She began the search, humming a tune I remembered from a high school Spanish class, and soon found a match. “Yes. We have the name. Was job foreman. Quit in March 1998. That all you want?”

  “Do you know where he was before he came to New Orleans?”

  “Dallas, Texas.”

  “Thanks very much,” I said. Then I put down the phone and turned to Jill. “Claude Detrich used to work for Paige and Wilson, the same as Ollie O’Keefe. Want to guess who’s probably going to show up on the Tidewater Construction payroll soon?”

  “You think O’Keefe took The Sand Castle plans?”

  “That would be my guess. Of course, I’d have to find him to have any chance of proving it.”

  “Didn’t Walt say the draftsman was going back to New Orleans?”

  “That was his story. Which may or may not have been true.” I thought about what else Walt had said. “He was a young guy. I wonder if he might have lived at home?”

  “Good question. How can you find out?”

  We were sitting on the sofa, and I glanced across at the laptop computer on a small table next to the wall. Though Jill and I both had PCs at home, we normally didn’t stay down here long enough to make that kind of investment for Gulf Sands. So we brought the laptop along to check on investments and e-mail and do whatever else needed doing.

  “One way would be to look for a phone number on Carondelet in New Orleans,” I said. “That’s where O’Keefe lived before joining New Horizons.”

  I plugged a phone line into the laptop and opened the internet browser. Logging onto anywho.com, I entered the name O’Keefe, Carondelet as the street, New Orleans as the city. The search netted the name Patrick O’Keefe with an address on Carondelet and an area code 504 phone number.

  Leaning toward me where she could see the screen, Jill patted my arm. “Good job. I may hire you to handle my next divorce.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said. “Does that mean I get to hide in the bushes and take photos of myself?”

  I plugged the line back into the phone and dialed the New Orleans number. After a couple of rings, an answering machine picked up. “You’ve reached the O’Keefes,” the message began. When the beep sounded, I left my name and the number at the condo, with instructions to call me collect. Few people bother with that anymore, but I didn’t want to give the O’Keefes an excuse to disregard my request.

  “Do you plan to wait here for the call?” Jill asked.

  I gave her a smug look and shrugged. “I thought I’d leave you here to do that. I need to head for Biloxi to track down Clau
de Detrich.”

  “At the Gulf Royale Casino?”

  “Right.”

  She frowned, brows knitted. “You leave here without me and your next case will be working on that divorce.”

  I grinned. “Yes, ma’am. Pack us a bag. I think this calls for an overnighter.”

  While Jill was packing, I got on the phone and called the pager number for my young OSI protégé Ted Kennerly. He had worked under me on his first assignment out of the Special Investigations Academy. After my retirement, we had stayed in contact with each other every month or so. Ted was stationed at Arnold Air Force Base south of Nashville. He had been a major help in my efforts to track down the people who held Jill hostage during the Arab/Israeli affair a year ago.

  I had called him from Pensacola before and hoped he would recognize the phone number. He answered my page a few minutes later.

  “What’s up, Boss?” he asked. He still used the term agents applied in addressing their special agent in charge.

  “Thanks for getting back to me, Ted. I need a little information I thought you might dig up for me.”

  I explained what I was doing in Pensacola and that I needed anything he could get me on a contractor named Claude Detrich and a developer named Evan Baucus. I told him what little I knew about them, including reports of their past in Dallas and Los Angeles.

  “I thought you had decided against being a private investigator,” he said.

  “I did. This is strictly a favor for Sam. If I were really into the PI business, I’d develop my own sources for background checks. I wouldn’t be calling in any markers with you.”

  “Hey, you don’t need any markers with me, Boss. You know that.”

  “What I meant is I don’t want to put a strain on our friendship.”

  “No problem,” he said. “Anytime. How’s Jill’s arm?”

  “It’s coming along. Not as fast as she’d like, I’m sure. Recently she’s been flexing her wings as assistant PI.”

  “She’s what?”

  I told him how helpful she had been, that she had come up with some crucial questions during my interviews.

  “That lady’s something else,” Ted said. “Give her our love. We owe you a dinner when you get back.”

  We often invited the Kennerlys up for one of Jill’s culinary masterpieces. Ted always praised her cooking, contending it was as good as his mother’s. A product of the mean streets of South Boston, he had the street smarts to make an excellent investigator. Ted told me he’d let me know as soon as he had something on Detrich or Baucus, and we hung up.

  As I was heading for the door with our bag in hand, the phone rang.

  “This is Sergeant Payne, Mr. McKenzie,” the booming voice said, as if any identification were necessary.

  “Yes, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”

  “Lieutenant Cassel, commander of the Big Lagoon Precinct, wants you to come in and see him.”

  Neither the tone nor the words indicated this was an invitation to a friendly get-together. More like a summons to an inquisition.

  “I’d be happy to come see the Lieutenant,” I said. “But at the moment we’re on our way out the door, headed for Biloxi. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  “Biloxi, huh? Well, I suppose so.” He didn’t sound overly enthusiastic about the idea. “That’s where Baucus and Detrich have their offices, right?”

  “I believe that’s correct, Sergeant.”

  “You’re coming back tomorrow?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Make sure you call as soon as you get back.”

  “Scout’s honor,” I said.

  I hung up the phone with a feeling that Lieutenant Cassel would not be offering congratulations for the excellent investigation I was conducting. I remembered telling Sherry Hoffman I was a private investigator and wondered if she had lodged a complaint.

  25

  The drive up to I-10 took about thirty minutes, putting us on the interstate at 1:30. From there to Biloxi was right at 100 miles. Without stops, that would land us at the Gulf Royale Casino well before 3:30, leaving plenty of time to nose around Biloxi. But Jill had drunk an extra-large glass of fruit tea for lunch, which should have forewarned me of things to come.

  Only the first few miles of the divided highway were in Florida. We had barely negotiated the on-ramp to I-10 when Jill looked around.

  “We’d better stop at the Alabama Welcome Center,” she said. “As I recall, there’s not another rest area until Mississippi. I don’t think my tea can make it that far.”

  So we stopped. And before getting under way again, I thought about my call to New Orleans. If I could locate Ollie O’Keefe before making contact with Detrich, I might stand a better chance of bluffing my way through to some useful piece of information.

  I got out my cell phone and punched in the O’Keefe number. After being greeted by the answering machine, I left a new message: “This is Greg McKenzie again. I had to leave my condo, but I will keep my cell phone on.” I left the number and pressed the END button.

  “Do you really think they’ll return your call?” Jill asked.

  “I should certainly hope so. Wouldn’t you be curious enough to dial the number and find out what it was all about?”

  “Yes. But most people aren’t like me.”

  I grinned. “Thank God. I’d hate to be in love with most people.”

  ———

  We cruised on down through Mobile and made another brief stop at the Mississippi Welcome Center. Then we headed for Ocean Springs, a small town famed for the pottery and paintings of the Anderson brothers, and crossed the long causeway into Biloxi. This was a scaled-down version of Vegas with grits, gumbo and gambling. We drove up to the Gulf Royale Casino at around 3:45. The hotel’s entrance was decorated in royal purple, emblazoned with colorful coats of arms, crowns and scepters. Though we had no reservation, we checked into the hotel without any problem. Wednesday was not a big day for casinos.

  The room was nice, with a king-size bed, a large TV and a round table with two chairs beside the window, which overlooked Biloxi’s protected segment of the Gulf. After getting settled in, we headed back to the lobby, which served both hotel and casino.

  Judging from the woman’s remark at his office, I figured Detrich for a real gambler, meaning he would not likely show up at the casino until that evening, when the crowd was larger and the payoffs more frequent. We had some time to kill, so I suggested to Jill that we have a look at Tidewater Construction’s office. I recalled my Tallahassee source had said the company was located in the Coastal Bank Annex.

  A hotel bellman gave me directions to the building, and we returned to the Jeep. We found the Coastal Bank a few blocks off Beach Boulevard in the middle of town. A three-story structure painted white and bearing an Old South look, the bank stood beside a low, brick building with ANNEX etched in stone above the entrance.

  We found a parking place on the next street and began to stroll back toward the bank. I pulled my Titans cap on as usual to protect my thinly shielded scalp. The afternoon felt more like midsummer, the sun beaming down from a nearly cloudless sky. We had dressed accordingly. I wore a sport shirt with sailboats on it and navy slacks, which seemed appropriate for the location. Jill was dressed in tune with the regal splendor of the casino—pale lavender pants, shirt of yellow and lavender stripes. I thought we should pass for a couple of reasonably well off vacationers.

  At the Coastal Bank Annex, we noted a corridor extending back from the entrance. The windows on one side were lettered PERSEID PARTNERS, while on the other side the sign read TIDEWATER CONSTRUCTION.

  “Let’s have a look at the Partners,” I said.

  Inside, the office resembled a real estate agency, with chairs arranged about a coffee table bearing news, architectural and boating magazines, complemented, of course, by tropical plants and framed photos of seascapes. A pert young woman with flowing brown hair and a long dress covered with red hibiscus blossoms sat at a desk in the
center. Behind her I saw the entrance to a hallway lined with offices.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, smiling.

  I smiled back. “We’re interested in a little information on your company.”

  “Were you interested in a particular project, like The Sand Castle?” She pointed to the corner of the desk, where a couple of stand-up displays were filled with brochures. “Or something more general for investors?”

  “More general,” I said.

  She pulled out a folder headlined “Join us and shoot for the stars...” Then I realized where I had heard of Perseid. The Partners was named for a meteor shower that provided a display of shooting stars during late summer. I took the brochure, thanked her, and Jill and I headed back out to the sidewalk. I thumbed through the folder quickly as we strolled toward the bank next door.

  “What’s the deal on Perseus?” Jill asked.

  “Not Perseus, Perseid.”

  “The name of the meteor shower comes from the Greek god Perseus. He killed the Gorgon Medusa. Don’t you remember your Greek mythology?”

  I grunted. “At this age, I do well to remember what I had for breakfast.” I held out the brochure. “Here’s our buddy.”

  Beneath a photo of a smiling Evan Baucus, a brief bio listed him as a former principal in a venture capital firm and a former residential real estate developer. According to the brochure, Perseid was involved in development of several projects besides The Sand Castle. They included a shopping mall, an apartment complex and an office building, all in Mississippi or Alabama. Shares in the projects were available to investors. Architects’ renderings of the various structures were included in the colorful brochure.

  When I pointed out the list of projects to Jill, she cocked her head in a questioning glance. “Do you suppose Tidewater is the contractor on the other projects?”

  I looked up at the lettering over the door next to the sidewalk where we stood—COASTAL BANK.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe somebody in here can tell us if they’ve bungled some other jobs.”

  26