Following Baucus’ instructions, we looked to the right of the elevator and saw an entrance numbered 101. I knocked and the door was opened by a man with a full, round face, brown hair and mustache. He had a stocky figure and was several inches shorter than me. I guessed him to be around sixty, as Walt had said. His stylish attire—blue suit, white shirt, quiet silk tie—marked him as a man with expensive tastes. I always look to the eyes for a clue and found his the color of ice on pavement, his expression patronizing.
“Mr. and Mrs. McKenzie?” he said, his features relaxing into a soft smile. “Please come in.”
We followed him into a spacious parlor with large windows flanked by flowing beige drapes, offering a magnificent view of the white sand beach. The room was furnished with earth-toned sofas and chairs. A stylized wet bar that no doubt closed to make a fancy piece of furniture stood open at one side. I took everything in with a slow gaze and more than a touch of envy as I compared it to our modest layout at Gulf Sands.
“Please have a seat,” Baucus said, just as his wife walked in from what I guessed was one of three bedrooms. “I believe you met my wife in Biloxi.”
She smiled and waved. “Hi. Nice to see you again.”
Instead of the unsophisticated small-town girl in a green tank top, Greta Baucus had been transformed into a graceful figure dressed in a long azure gown that looked simple but elegant. What had not changed was the full bust that struggled for space, and the wrist burdened with baubles and bangles of gold.
Jill and I sat on a large, overstuffed sofa. I squirmed a bit, attempting to find a comfortable position that wouldn’t put pressure on my battered left side. I also felt a bit uncomfortable because of my casual attire. I wondered if the Baucuses’ fancy duds were meant to impress us or if they were really dressed for a night out.
Evan Baucus sat in a large chair, Greta standing behind him like a portrait of the dutiful spouse. “I understand you’re interested in making a substantial investment in Perseid Partners,” he said.
I was wary. He obviously did not get our Pensacola phone number from his wife. “Yes, we have discussed it,” I said. “Jill is a pretty sharp investor. We own shares in several limited partnerships. But I’ll have to confess, it was not just our interest in making an investment that brought us to your door in Biloxi. I had hoped you would be at home. But since you weren’t, we took the opportunity to have a nice visit with your wife.”
“I see.” Baucus had a neutral expression. “And what was your actual mission?”
“As I suspect you know, we are friends of Sam and Wilma Gannon, Tim Gannon’s parents. Tim was staying in our condo here at Gulf Sands. Sam asked me to come down and look into the facts surrounding his son’s death. He finds it quite hard to believe his son committed suicide.”
Baucus nodded. “As I’m sure any parent would be. However, I trust your findings are the same as those of the sheriff and the Medical Examiner?”
“Actually, I haven’t completed my investigation yet. I still have several loose ends to tie down.”
“Are you aware of the hearing scheduled for Monday in Pensacola?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m looking forward to the testimony.”
Baucus frowned. “I envy your enthusiasm. I’m afraid I don’t share it. The bad publicity has already caused this project a great deal of harm.”
“I understand your concern, but don’t you think determining where the blame belongs is important?”
“Unfortunately for your friends, the blame clearly rests with Tim Gannon’s design.”
I leaned forward against the ache in my ribs to emphasize my point. “Are you sure it isn’t the fault of the contractor? Tim’s assistant says the plans called for heavier rebars and stronger concrete than Claude Detrich used.”
I had called Walt before leaving Gulf Sands. He confirmed the laptop file called for the stronger materials.
“That’s not true,” Baucus said bluntly. “Tidewater used the plans supplied to us by Tim Gannon’s firm.”
“Detrich only has a copy,” I said. “Do you have the original plans that Tim gave you?”
“No,” he said with a troubled look. “Oddly, my set of plans is missing. We had a break-in at the office over the weekend. Somebody took the plans.”
I looked around at Jill and frowned. “That’s weird.”
“Quite,” he said. “Fortunately, the police found some fingerprints. They were able to identify a man named Oliver O’Keefe. They said he was originally from New Orleans, but he had been working in Nashville. I didn’t have time to check on it before we left Biloxi, but at last report, O’Keefe had not been located.”
I knew where he was probably located—on a morgue slab in Mobile.
39
As Jill and I digested that blockbuster, Baucus looked around with a contrite smile. “Where’s our manners, Greta? See if Mr. and Mrs. McKenzie would like something to drink.”
“I can brew some decaf,” Greta said.
We politely declined, and she moved over to sit in a nearby chair.
I decided to take a different tack. “I understand Tim started the rescue efforts after the balcony collapsed.”
Baucus leaned back in his chair and built a teepee with his fingers. “Yes, he did. Actually, he was quite resourceful. I liked the young man quite a bit, you know. It’s a shame all of this had to happen. He was obviously very distressed by the casualties. I suppose that’s what pushed him over the edge.”
“Do you recall what time he left here that night?” I asked.
“It must have been around eleven, wasn’t it, Greta?” He glanced across at her. “Wasn’t too long before we went to bed. There was so much confusion after the accident. Trying to satisfy the sheriff and keep the media at bay. It seems almost like a dream now. A nightmare.”
“Your wife said you got a phone call about twelve-thirty that night and left again. What was that about?”
The fleeting glance he cast toward Greta was full of daggers. “The call had nothing to do with The Sand Castle. It was a personal matter. Greta answered the phone and gave it to me, or I might not have taken the call. After hearing some unpleasant news, I gave the phone back to her and left. I was gone about an hour.”
Plenty of time to get to the National Seashore and shoot Tim, I thought. He could easily have driven up the beach.
“Sergeant Payne told me he saw Tim talking with you and Claude Detrich before he left,” I said. “What did you discuss?”
He shrugged. “Tim was worried about the possibility of lawsuits. And we talked about the cause of the accident. We had all looked at where the break occurred. I’m no engineer, but it was obvious from the way the steel bars had bent that they were not large enough for the weight of the balcony. Tim simply made a mistake when specifying the rebars to use. It was a tragic mistake.”
“If the plans he furnished specified larger rebars and stronger concrete as Tim’s assistant, Walt Sturdivant, says, the copy Detrich has must have been tampered with.”
“I don’t see how,” Baucus said. “If that were the case, then Mr. Sturdivant should bring their original set down here to show some proof of it.”
“Their original was stolen, too,” I said. “We think it was taken by the same Oliver O’Keefe who was a draftsman there until he quit last week.”
If the shock on his face wasn’t genuine, he was a good actor. “Are you telling me that New Horizons has no set of Sand Castle plans?”
“That’s right.”
He rubbed one hand down his cheek and across his chin, appearing completely absorbed in thought. And then a smile spread slowly across his face. “Now it makes sense. Don’t you see? O’Keefe worked for Tim, right? Tim must have called him Friday night after the accident, instructed him to take New Horizons’ plans and destroy them. Then O’Keefe came to Biloxi and stole mine. That would leave only the copies held by Detrich and Farnsworth. Then New Horizons could claim the plans here had been tampered with. It could relieve the
m of a big liability.”
I shook my head. “What good would it do without an original set of plans that showed the proper specifications? As you indicated, they’d have no proof.”
“Yes, that was the fallacy in the plot, wasn’t it? In his distraught state of mind, Tim was hardly thinking straight. But I’m sure he had put his family’s interest foremost, what it would mean for them. It’s all such a tragedy.”
———
“He has an answer for everything, doesn’t he?” Jill said as we made the short drive to Gulf Sands.
“Yeah,” I said. “And the problem is he made everything sound so plausible. Did that bit about Tim calling someone in Nashville Friday night strike a familiar chord? It was basically the same scheme Sergeant Payne came up with. And, remember, that was a possibility I had thought about when we first got here.”
“So where does this leave us?”
“Still grabbing at Claude Detrich’s coattails,” I said.
Back at our condo, I checked the videotape from my mini-camera and found no trace of the black Cadillac. I guess I should have considered it a good thing, but I was getting antsy—I wanted to know the identity of the guys who had worked me over. Before re-starting the videotape, I switched the camera input to the TV screen. What I saw moments later did not bring any cheers.
I called out to Jill. “Come take a look at this.”
She came in from the kitchen and stared at the TV. Two green-and-white cars from the Sheriff’s Office were pulling up to the front of the building. They were out of view when they parked, so I had no idea who got out. I reset the videotape and switched off the TV. About a minute later, I heard a loud knock at the door. There was a button to ring the doorbell, but whoever was knocking obviously wanted to emphasize their presence.
I opened the door to find Lieutenant Cassel standing there with Sergeant Payne behind him.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” I asked, smiling.
“We need to talk,” said Cassel. No smile there.
The look he gave me did not indicate he came bearing an olive branch.
“Please come in,” I said. I led them into the living room, where Jill stood beside the balcony doors. I introduced her to the lieutenant. Payne nodded his recognition.
“Have a seat,” I said, motioning toward the sofa.
I sat beside Jill on the love seat.
“The sheriff called me a while ago,” Cassel said, eyes fixed on mine. “A good friend of his, a prominent citizen of Pensacola, contacted him with a complaint. He said his son was being badgered by you and he wanted it stopped.”
I played dumb. “Who have I been badgering?” I asked, looking perplexed.
“Bosley Farnsworth, the Threshold Inspector for The Sand Castle project. I warned you, McKenzie.”
“I presume the complainant was Denton Farnsworth,” I said. “Did he specify how I had badgered his son?”
“The sheriff said you had been asking a lot of questions.”
“Which he voluntarily answered.”
“What about this claim you had evidence to turn over to us that would warrant bringing Farnsworth in for questioning? Where’s the evidence?”
I shook my head slowly. “I told Boz I’d have to turn over the results of my investigation soon. I did not say I had any evidence now.”
“So you’re just bluffing. You don’t have sh—” His eyes flashed toward Jill, then back. “You don’t have proof of anybody doing anything. You don’t know if any crime’s been committed.”
“I know another set of The Sand Castle plans has been stolen,” I said. I told him what Baucus had said about the theft in Biloxi. Then I added, “I know somebody is seriously concerned that I’m getting close.”
When I related the story about the two heavies who had cornered Jill and me last night, he gave me a skeptical look. “That what happened to your face?”
“Right.”
He glared. “Did you report it?”
“No. We were in Orange Beach. I had made turns into some side streets in an attempt to elude them, so I didn’t have a clue as to where we were. I also didn’t see the tag number. I only knew they were a couple of hoods from Louisiana, probably New Orleans.”
“I suppose you’re gonna tell me next they were Mafia wiseguys.”
“I don’t know who they were,” I said, getting fed up with his attitude. My voice turned as testy as his. “But now that you mention it, they were rather swarthy looking.”
“Well, McKenzie, if there were any such guys, I’d say they hit the nail right on the head. You’ve had your nose into too many people’s business. And you’d better pull it back before it gets chopped off. If you’re retired, you’d be wise to start acting like it. I talked to a friend in Nashville who told me you don’t like cops. Well, I guaran-damn-tee you’re gonna like ’em even less if I have to come out here again.”
With that, he stood up and snapped at the sergeant. “Let’s get out of here, Payne, before I get mad.”
When I came back from closing the front door, Jill looked up. “If that wasn’t the real thing, I’d sure hate to see him when he gets mad.”
40
“Since you haven’t seen any further evidence of those two horrible men around here,” Jill said, “would we be safe in making another try at Doc’s tonight?”
I nodded. “You bet we would.” But I made a mental note to be ready with the Beretta. There are legal restraints to an armed response, but I would be well within them.
Fifteen minutes later, we turned west again. The air was cool, the temperature dropping as dusk approached. The morning’s overcast had broken up, leaving the sky a playground for a dazzling spectacle, a swarm of clouds tinted by a multi-hued sunset that shifted with the grace of a Tai Chi exercise group. I had difficulty keeping my attention focused on the business at hand, but we reached the restaurant with no suspicious sightings.
Doc’s was always busy on Friday nights, even as early as we had arrived. After standing in line for twenty minutes, we were ushered to a table. We settled on shrimp salad and chatted about trivial things during the meal. I knew it was time to set Tim’s murder aside and let the air clear a bit. As we talked, Jill wondered what was going on back in Hermitage, whether the grass would need cutting again (I certainly hoped not), how the Titans would make out in Sunday’s game and what new painful exercises Vickie would have dreamed up for her at the Rehab Clinic.
When we got back to Gulf Sands around 7:30, we found a few more cars in the parking lot than before we left. Weekends usually brought an influx of guests. We saw lights on in two other units near ours. As soon as I opened the door, I heard the answering machine beeping. There was a message to call the Rev. Charlie Brown.
“Good evening, Charlie,” I said when he answered. “Did you get a look at that sunset this evening?”
“Wasn’t it gorgeous? Makes you want to believe in God, doesn’t it?”
“You’ve got a point there. What’s up, my friend?”
His voice turned serious. “I had a disturbing call this evening. J.W. Payne wanted to know if you had questioned me about Bosley Farnsworth. He said the boy’s father had complained that you were harassing him.”
“I know. Sergeant Payne and his boss, Lieutenant Cassel, were over here late this afternoon. Cassel used badgering rather than harassing. Same difference, I guess.”
“I told J.W. I considered our discussion confidential. I thought about calling Denton—we’re still good friends—but I didn’t know if I should. What got him so upset?”
“Boz Farnsworth has some serious problems. He approved the installation of that balcony when he should have known it wasn’t constructed properly. I questioned him about that and about where he was Friday night after the accident. When I put a little pressure on him by talking about what the sheriff might do if they hauled him in, he got uptight and called his dad.”
“Would you like me to talk to Denton and explain things?” Charlie asked.
&n
bsp; I knew I was not likely to win any popularity contests around here with all the dirt I was digging up, but it didn’t bother me. I had managed to keep a steady succession of people unhappy during my years in the Air Force. Anyway, I never had much sympathy for guys who did nasty things and got caught, thanks to my efforts.
“I guess not, Charlie,” I said. “After that hearing on Monday, I expect Boz will be the one doing the explaining.”
“What hearing?”
“The county building inspector is looking into the cause of the accident Friday night. Everybody involved will be there.”
“I suppose we’ll see all about it in the newspaper. Have you had any luck in finding out if somebody else was responsible for Gannon’s death?”
“I have a pretty good idea who killed him, but I don’t have the proof yet. I’m trying to put the pieces together now. Hopefully I’ll know more by Sunday.”
“Good luck,” Charlie said and hung up.
Jill came in with cups of cappuccino and sat beside me. “Had any ideas about how to make some headway with Claude Detrich?” she asked.
I took my cup and sipped thoughtfully. “He’s probably here, but we don’t know where he lives. I wonder...”
I walked over to the counter, got the phone book, and thumbed through the D listings. There was a Claude Detrich listed with the address of an apartment down the beach.
“This has to be him,” I said. “Since he’s been working on the project for over a year, it’s logical he would have a phone here.”
“Are you going to call him or drop by?” Jill asked.
“I seriously doubt he’d issue an invitation if I called. We’d better just drop in and see if we can catch him at home. Maybe in the morning.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t have a hangover.”
“Good thought,” I said. But I was considering something else. If he was our man, it would likely bring another visit from the New Orleans contingent in the near future.
Designed to Kill (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) Page 18
