Designed to Kill (Greg McKenzie Mysteries)

by Chester D. Campbell

  41

  Claude Detrich had a second floor apartment in a rustic gray building on the opposite side of the road from the beach. The structure appeared to stand on stilts, with room for parking underneath. It was angled back toward the stretch of water called Old River, which separated Perdido Key from Ono Island, a finger of land that housed an exclusive residential area. Jill and I arrived at the apartment around ten o’clock on Saturday morning. With the temperature hardly out of the fifties, our jackets felt good. I had on my Titans cap to deal with the beaming sun.

  The Detrich who answered the doorbell appeared a bit less sinister than the one we remembered from the Gulf Royale Casino. This one looked more like a short-haired fat boy in brown shorts and an extra-extra-large T-shirt. But the deep-set gray eyes and the circular mustache-beard carried the same anger I had seen Wednesday night in Biloxi.

  “What the hell do you want, McKenzie?”

  “I’ve turned up information I think would interest you,” I said. “May we come in?”

  Detrich snorted. “I know who you are and what you’re up to. I don’t give a damn what you turned up.”

  “You’re going to be asked a lot of tough questions at that hearing on Monday. I can tell you some things that are likely to come up.”

  He eyed me suspiciously, then glanced at Jill, weighing his options. Finally he jerked his head toward the interior of the apartment. “Come on in.”

  We walked into a small living room furnished in a style that might have been called Modern Chaos. There was a cheap brown sofa, a modernistic floor lamp, a pair of striped beach chairs, and a too-large wooden desk with matching chair beside the window. The most striking feature of the place was the clutter. Shirts, pants, socks and other assorted items of clothing were scattered about, covering one chair and part of the other. Jumbled sections of newspaper lay on the floor and across one end of the sofa. Empty beer cans were lined up on the desk, a stack of blueprints on the floor at one end.

  “You caught me before I had time to clean up,” Detrich said.

  Like he cleaned house every morning after breakfast.

  He scooped up the papers and dropped them behind the sofa. “You can sit over here.”

  Jill and I sat on the sofa, and he eased his large frame onto a beach chair that appeared in danger of collapsing. I sat gently, too, though the soreness in my side had eased as the large bruise shifted into a patch of many colors.

  “You know Tim Gannon’s father is the one who asked me to look into what happened down here,” I said.

  “Yeah. And I know you’re the people who own the condo where he was staying.”

  If he had sent the New Orleans pair after me, that was a given. I was also sure he had talked with Boz and Baucus.

  “We found a laptop computer Tim had left in our bedroom,” I said. “Someone had tampered with it early Saturday morning, erased The Sand Castle file that contained Tim’s original plans and specifications.”

  “So what? I got a set over there,” he said, pointing toward the floor beside the desk.

  “Boz Farnsworth has a set, too. Where did yours come from?”

  “Same place as his. It’s a copy of what Gannon furnished Evan Baucus.”

  “You might be interested to know that Walt Sturdivant, Tim’s assistant, says the rebars and concrete Tim specified originally are different from what he saw on Boz’s plans.”

  “Then I’d say he was a damned liar.” Detrich twisted his face into a scowl.

  “Walt took Tim’s laptop back to Nashville and had a firm that specializes in software recovery work on it. They recovered The Sand Castle file. Walt confirmed what he remembered. He’s bringing the information down here Monday.”

  From the look in Detrich’s eyes, I was sure this had not been happy news.

  “The only thing that counts are sheets with Gannon’s seal on them,” he said. “That’s what I’ve got.”

  “What you have is a copy. Evan Baucus says the original was stolen by a man named Oliver O’Keefe. The same Oliver O’Keefe who quit last week as a draftsman for New Horizons Architects and Engineers in Nashville. That was just before Tim’s plans disappeared. He’s the same Oliver O’Keefe, I might add, who lived on Carondolet in New Orleans and worked at Paige and Wilson Contractors when you did.”

  Detrich’s face reddened. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “You tell me, Mr. Detrich. That’s an awful lot of coincidences.”

  “I think you’re full of shit, McKenzie. You’re digging in dry holes.”

  “Boz Farnsworth told me you left the Key Hole Bar Friday around midnight. Where did you go from there?” I asked.

  He doubled his fists and planted them firmly against his broad waist. “Where I went anytime is my private affair and none of your damned business.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Your face looks like somebody’s already worked you over once. You’d better get the hell out of here while you still have a few teeth left.”

  I stood, facing him. “Why are you afraid to tell me what time you left and where you went?”

  He stomped over to the door and jerked it open. “Out, McKenzie! You stay the hell away from me if you know what’s good for you.”

  With the comforting bulk of the Beretta under my jacket, I wasn’t worried about my safety. But I didn’t like the prospects of what might happen to Jill. I ushered her through the door and toward the nearby stairs.

  “You sure have the formula for making folks unhappy,” she said. “Sherry and I parted the best of friends. Maybe you’d better let me do the questioning in the future.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to throttle her or laugh. But she had a point. When you have a big organization behind you, like the district attorney’s office or the United States Air Force, you can be as confrontational as you want with very little danger. Taking that tack when you’re on your own is not without peril. But I hoped by giving Detrich a lot to think about, maybe shaking his confidence, I could induce a slip-up that would allow me to nail him. I’d just have to wait and see.

  When we left Detrich’s apartment, Jill suggested we continue a couple of miles west to Orange Beach and hit the big supermarket there. We had been so busy the last few days that we hadn’t found time to replenish our food supply. Then, as we left the grocery, I made the mistake of not directing her straight to the Jeep. A colorful blouse in a nearby store window caught her eye. By the time she got her fill of shopping, we had wasted most of another hour, putting us back at Gulf Sands after noon.

  I considered what I had and hadn’t learned from Detrich while Jill fixed a green salad, which we ate with melon that was surprisingly sweet and juicy for this time of year. Our discussion over the contractor’s possible role in Tim’s death kept me from checking my parking area surveillance tape until after lunch. When I finally got around to it, I felt my suspicions about Detrich confirmed. Well along the tape, with the time showing 12:20—which meant the segment had been recorded about the time we had started eating—a black Cadillac with a dented front fender slowly cruised through the lot. I had focused the camera so it would catch license plates. As the car departed, I saw a Louisiana tag with the number clearly readable.

  I grabbed the phone book and looked up the number for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service at Pensacola NAS. As expected, I got a lifeless answering machine voice with an emergency number to call or the option of leaving a message. I left word for Red Tarkington to get in touch with me at our condo.

  He called a short time later while Jill was working on her second set of exercises for the day.

  “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon,” I said, surprised.

  “I’m not usually here on a Saturday afternoon, but I came in to do a little paper work. Well, actually, a lot of paper work. They’re forever coming up with some new kind of report that needs to be done yesterday.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So how have you been? Ted Kennerly told me you have a condo down here.
”

  “Doing fine,” I said, exaggerating a bit. “We have a two-bedroom unit at Gulf Sands on Perdido Key.”

  “Hey, you’re practically next door. Do you ever get over this way? Visit the museum, maybe?”

  Besides the Blue Angels, Pensacola NAS was home to the National Museum of Naval Aviation, an impressive facility housing restored Navy aircraft from the earliest to the present. “We’ve been over there several times, took the flight line tour and all.”

  “Ted told me about some of your problems,” Red said. “Everything going okay now?”

  “I’m not sure what he told you, but if you’re referring to that flap with the Metro Nashville Police Department, it’s behind me. Well, almost. A little fallout occasionally comes back to haunt me.” I thought of Lieutenant Cassel’s comment about talking with a friend in Nashville.

  “We also discussed the Israeli thing,” Red said. “I trust you’ve had no repercussions on that score.”

  That caught me by surprise. The few people concerned with that distressing episode, including Ted, had been warned to forget everything that happened. “I’ve had no repercussions, but I’m wondering why Ted would have said anything. That affair was strictly hush-hush, off the record.”

  Red laughed. “I brought it up. Turns out I knew a little more than he did. I was over there at the time, investigating an unauthorized transfer of property between some SEALs and an ex-Mossad agent named Zalman.”

  “Know the gentleman quite well,” I said. He and his partner were the thugs who had spirited Jill off to Tel Aviv.

  “Is your wife with you?” he asked.

  “Right. We’re down here doing a little private investigation at the moment. I guess you’ve read about the balcony collapse at The Sand Castle last week, and the supposed suicide of Tim Gannon, the architect-engineer?”

  “Yeah. I heard he was a former pilot at the base.”

  “His dad is a retired Air Force pilot and a close friend in Nashville. Sam Gannon asked me to come down and look into what happened. He doesn’t believe Tim killed himself. And from what I’ve uncovered, neither do I.”

  “Interesting. Say, are you doing anything tomorrow afternoon? Maybe we could get together at the Cubi Bar—I presume you’re familiar with the place—and talk about things.”

  “Love to. What time?”

  “How about two o’clock?”

  “Fine. Jill will be with me. She’s been helping with this investigation. And since that business in Israel, I’ve kept a pretty close watch on her.”

  “Don’t blame you.”

  “There’s one favor I’d like to ask, Red, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. A couple of guys in a black Cadillac have been harassing us. I’d sure like to know something about them. Could you possibly check out a Louisiana license number?”

  “No problem. Give it to me and I’ll check the computer.”

  He was back in a couple of minutes.

  “Looks like you may have stirred up a hornet’s nest, Greg. The car belongs to Bayou Rentals of New Orleans. It’s run by the mob. Their soldiers use the cars for transportation.”

  42

  Jill had just come in from the bedroom, where she had been slaving away at her exercise routine. I told her what Red Tarkington had said.

  “They’re Mafia?”

  “Certainly looks that way,” I said, watching her. She took it well.

  “Does that mean Detrich has a connection with organized crime?”

  “Probably. Maybe they staked him to his ownership position in Tidewater Construction.”

  She bit at her lip. “Are we getting in over our head?”

  “Not yet,” I said, trying to calm her. But now that I knew the likely identity of the bad guys, I was even more concerned about my lack of resources. These guys were old hands at intimidation. I wasn’t about to let them scare me off, but I was determined to keep Jill from being caught in the crossfire again.

  As I thought of one possibility, I went out to the post where my camera was mounted and adjusted the aim to focus on the spot where my Jeep was parked. I wanted to know if anyone tampered with the vehicle. I also gave the Jeep a careful check. For now it was clean.

  Back inside, I told Jill what I had decided to do. “We need to check the Key Hole Bar and see if we can find who Detrich was arguing with the night of the accident. Maybe they can give us some idea of what happened to him, where he was headed when he left there.”

  “Do you want to go now?”

  “No. It would be somebody who works nights. We should probably go around five.”

  “Do you think the Cadillac will be waiting for us?” Jill’s eyes showed her concern.

  “If it is, at least we’ll be in broad open daylight. We should be back here before dark. I doubt they would try anything with witnesses around.”

  I said it for Jill’s benefit, though I wasn’t so sure.

  ———

  When we turned off Johnson Beach Road onto Perdido Key Drive at a quarter till five, I saw the black Cadillac pull out of the parking lot that served a bar and lounge at the intersection.

  “Our friends are with us,” I said.

  Jill looked around, her mouth tight.

  Ignoring the speed limit, I stepped on the accelerator and aired out the Jeep. I sort of hoped some eager cop would pull me over, but, as expected, none showed up. The sun was getting low, but it was still well above the horizon when we swung across the highway into the Key Hole Bar parking area. There were plenty of empty spaces this time of day, but the collection of dusty cars and rusty pickup trucks told me there would be more than a few “good old boys” inside. A critical thought crossed my mind before leaving the Jeep. Carrying firearms into a bar was illegal, but I felt sure that would not deter our pursuers if they were Mafia wiseguys. So I stuck the Beretta in the large inside pocket of my jacket where it would not be so obvious.

  The Key Hole was housed in a rambling, ramshackle building that contrasted sharply with the classy condos in the area. We entered through an unpainted wooden door and had to pause for a moment so our eyes could adjust to the light level. Or, more accurately, the darkness level. The haze that hung about the place with an overwhelming smell of tobacco smoke certainly didn’t help. It also didn’t help my lingering memories of puffing a pack a day. Square tables with checkered cloths were squeezed into every inch of space, except for a postage stamp-sized dance floor at one end. A long dark wood bar stood at the other end, with at least a dozen stools lined up in front, most occupied by what appeared to be local workmen rather than vacationers. The walls were plastered with beer and cigarette signs, plus a few murals featuring scantily clad beach beauties.

  “Let’s try the bar,” I said.

  There were two vacant stools at one end, just beyond a couple of guys with long hair and bushy beards. Their jeans were topped by shirts with rolled up sleeves that exposed tanned, muscular arms decorated with garish tattoos. I took a seat next to one with a skull and crossbones near his shoulder and put Jill on the end. As we sat down, I looked around and spotted two men standing just inside the door. Despite the gloom in the room, I felt certain they were the pair I had met at Orange Beach Thursday night. I decided not to mention it to Jill.

  “What’ll it be?” asked a short bartender who hardly looked old enough to drink, much less work in a bar.

  “A strawberry daiquiri for me,” Jill said.

  “Scotch and soda,” I said.

  Glancing around, I saw the two hoods seated at a nearby table. A TV over the bar was blaring away with a football game between the Florida Gators and a team dressed in green with a mascot that looked like a frog. I wasn’t interested in football or frogs, but I figured the noisy commentary would make it unlikely I could be overheard by the mobsters, if that’s what they were.

  When the bartender brought our drinks a few minutes later, I asked, “Do you know a regular named Claude Detrich?”

  “Big, burly guy with short black hair?”

>   I nodded.

  “I didn’t know his first name was Claude.”

  “Were you the one he tangled with around midnight a week ago?” I asked. “It was the night the balcony fell at The Sand Castle.”

  “Naw. I was off that night. Joe’s the one he gave a hard time to. Joe’s a glutton for punishment. Works every weekend.”

  “Is he here now?”

  He nodded toward the other end of the bar. “That’s him.”

  “Ask him if he’d come over for a moment.” I turned the glass with my fingers. “I have a question for him.”

  A couple of minutes later, Joe walked up and planted a large pair of dark, hairy hands on the bar in front of me. They looked like what you’d expect on a gorilla in the wild. He was big enough for a gorilla, had dark hair, dark eyes, and a disposition I suspected could be as dark as the rest. I didn’t think he would have taken much guff off of Claude Detrich.

  “What about Detrich?” he asked in a gravel voice. “The bastard hasn’t been back since that night. You a friend of his?”

  “Hardly,” I said. “I wondered if you knew what he did when he left here, where he might have gone?”

  “Got no idea.”

  “Did he seem sober enough to drive?”

  “Hell no. And I don’t let his kind drive away from here if I can help it. Don’t mind if they kill themselves, but there’s too many innocent people out there. I told him he’d better find somebody to carry him home or I’d call the sheriff and have him followed. One of the deputies had been in here a little while before that.”

  “What did Detrich do?” I asked.

  “Called some guy to come after him. I had to help him dial.”

  “Did you see who came to get him?”

  He nodded. “Middle sized guy. Sorta stocky. Brown hair slicked back, mustache.”

  “Would that have been a little after twelve-thirty a.m.?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. I wasn’t paying much attention to the time.”

  I thanked him and turned to Jill.