“Looks like you’re close to putting the final nails in Evan Baucus’s coffin,” she said.
“Yeah. But I’ll bet he had plenty of help from Claude Detrich. Remember, we were ambushed Thursday night, while Baucus was still in the Caymans. I’d guess he had been in contact with Detrich, who told him what we were doing.”
“Wouldn’t you also think Detrich had talked with Boz Farnsworth after your encounter with him? Boz knew exactly who you were, but you didn’t tell Detrich the whole story in Biloxi. Yet he knew everything when you talked to him Saturday.”
“You’re right on target as usual, babe.”
I had one more call to make. Tracking down Red Tarkington with his pager, I gave him my cell phone number and the same instructions I had given Ted. He promised to call as soon as he had something.
Exactly at eight, Investigator Wiggins’ brother-in-law appeared at our door with the key to a Toyota Camry and paperwork for a three-day rental. As I had instructed, he parked the car in front of the building next door, walked through to the beach side and crossed the sidewalk in back to our building. He then came through to the front and took the elevator to the second floor. If anybody had been watching, they would not likely have connected the man who entered our condo with the one who parked the Camry.
At 8:10, an associate drove up out front and the rental agent got in with him and drove away.
Jill and I were getting ready to leave a few minutes later when Investigator Wiggins called.
“You were right about the disk,” he said. “They could have tracked you from several miles away. We also got a good thumb print where he pressed the gadget against the frame. Sloppy work. He should have used gloves.”
“Did you check him out on AFIS?” I asked. The Automated Fingerprint Identification System was handy within the state and maybe adjoining states. But it wasn’t universal and required querying state by state.
“We found him, one Anthony Ferrari of New Orleans. He’s a wise guy with a rap sheet a foot long. And his mug shots match the face on your videotape. Are you willing to prosecute him for stalking and whatever other charges the DA can come up with?”
“You can count on it. I’ll also prosecute in Orange Beach for assault and battery, if you’ll share your findings with them.”
“The other question is, who sent him and his partner, and why?”
“I’m ninety-five percent sure I know,” I said. “But I don’t have the proof as yet. I hope to have something before the day is over.”
“Let me know as soon as possible. The sheriff doesn’t like the idea of mob characters operating in Escambia County. Meanwhile, we’ll be looking for Mr. Ferrari. Take care.”
I intended to.
48
I had checked the videotape earlier and nothing appeared amiss around the Jeep, but we stuck with the plan. We went out through the pool area and crossed over to the other building, then walked through to the front and got in the Camry. We arrived at the office building where the hearing was to be held shortly before nine. While looking for the room, we ran into Walt Sturdivant, who had checked in with us on arrival the night before. He was dressed in Florida casual business attire—contrasting blue pants and jacket, white shirt, no tie. The now familiar pipe stuck out of his breast pocket.
“I have the goods here,” he said. He held up a large brown envelope from the software recovery firm, sealed, signed and dated across the seal.
“I hope they’ll accept it and not demand to hear from somebody firsthand,” I said.
Walt pulled out a smaller envelope. “Took care of that, too. This is a sworn, notarized statement from the guy who did the recovery.”
He was sharper than I gave him credit for.
We walked into the room with Walt and saw two TV cameras set up in back. Several rows of folding chairs had been arranged facing a long table. We took seats near the front. A white-haired man in a gray suit, round glasses perched on the end of his nose, sat at the table behind a stack of papers. Three younger men, one dressed casual, the others in suits, stood beside him, talking.
“The old guy in the chair is Mr. Redding, head of the Building Inspections Department,” Walt said. “The blue suit standing is a county attorney. Brown suit is the plans examiner. The other guy is the structural engineer conducting the investigation.”
I looked around and saw Evan Baucus seated between Claude Detrich and a suave-looking man with jet-black hair, younger than Baucus but just as nattily attired. Boz Farnsworth, I noted, sat away from his Sand Castle buddies. Beside him was an elderly man who resembled Santa Claus without the red suit. I presumed he was one of daddy’s high-powered legal advisers. I could identify several of the others in the audience as news people by the note pads they carried.
The hearing finally got under way with a nice speech by Mr. Redding for the benefit of the media and his own political future. He expressed sympathy for the victims and their families and vowed to search out the cause of the accident and determine how it had happened. The latter translated “who was at fault,” but I suspected that would wind up being determined in court. I hadn’t volunteered my services as yet, but I hoped soon to be in a position to influence the decision.
The investigating engineer spoke next. The most significant bit of information he provided was that the balcony showed signs of having been damaged initially by the hurricane back in July. Rains since then had aggravated the problem. However, he did not think the structure would have failed except for the inadequate materials used in its construction. As he continued to discuss his findings, my cell phone rang. I quickly punched the talk button and moved to the back of the room. It was Red Tarkington. I stepped out into the corridor as we began to talk.
“I got your cell phone log,” Red said.
“Great. Anything after the twelve-thirty call from the Key Hole Bar?”
“Yep. One outbound call. And guess whose number?”
“Mine.”
He laughed. “Right again. The call was made at 12:42.”
“I could hug you, my friend. You have just about nailed the coffin shut.”
When I returned to the hearing room, Boz Farnsworth was being put into the hot seat, a folding chair placed in front of the table. His Teddy Bear lawyer sat beside him. I grinned and whispered “Red” as I took my seat beside Jill. I told her I would fill in the details when we had a break.
“Mr. Farnsworth,” said Redding in his slow, deliberate voice, “why did you not feel it incumbent upon yourself to raise some question when you saw that pour? Surely you must have wondered about the use of those rebars and the particular mix of concrete.”
Boz was sweating, as if he’d just come off the tennis court. “In retrospect, I’m sure I should have, Mr. Redding.” He paused to clear his throat. “But at the time, I was concentrating more on just what the specs said, rather than what they might have or should have said. You know, trying to make sure they were being followed by the contractor. I knew Tim Gannon had the credentials of a competent structural engineer. He had access to all the tables showing stresses to be expected and materials strengths that would be necessary. I just couldn’t imagine something like this happening.”
Redding shuffled some papers. Then he said, “The balcony was poured the afternoon of July fifteenth. Why did you not submit photographs of this pour? We received pictures for all the others.”
Boz stammered a bit. “I’m sorry, the photo lab lost the roll of film they were on.”
“Film? All of your other photos are digital.”
“I know, sir. But my digital camera was acting up, so I used my 35 millimeter that day. The film got lost.”
Boz was asked a few other questions, one of which brought an objection from his lawyer and was dropped. Then Walt was called to testify.
“I understand you have some exculpatory evidence to introduce, Mr. Sturdivant,” Redding said after Walt was seated.
“Yes, sir. It’s in this envelope.”
Walt hand
ed over the envelope, then explained how I had found the laptop and the circumstances under which we discovered the file had been deleted. He told about the software recovery people restoring the file and turned over their affidavit regarding the operation.
“There is a CD-ROM disk with the file on it in the envelope,” Walt said. “We printed out the specification sheet from it, showing the balcony details. That is also in the envelope. You will find the specs call for number eleven rebars and 4,000 p.s.i. concrete.”
“I understand, however,” Redding said, “that you have no original set of sealed plans.”
“That is correct.” Walt proceeded to explain about the theft and our suspicions regarding the recently resigned draftsman.
When they finally finished with Walt, it was about 10:30 and Redding called a brief recess. As soon as we got outside, I told Jill about the call Baucus had made to Tim.
“It must have been to set up the meeting at the Seashore,” she said.
“That’s my guess. And he made the call right after he left The Sand Castle. I’ll bet he stopped in the parking lot at the bar on the corner of Johnson Beach Road, where our Mafia escort waited for us Saturday.”
While she made an obligatory trip to the rest room, I got out my phone and called Sherry Hoffman. I told her briefly about Boz’s testimony regarding the photos of the balcony pour.
“Do you know where Boz plays tennis?” I asked.
“It’s a tennis center across town. I think he practically lives there.”
“As I suspected. I presume they keep records of who plays when?”
“That’s right. I’ve been over there with him a few times. He always calls and reserves a court.”
“Could you check with them and see if he played there on the afternoon of July fifteenth?”
She hesitated a moment. “That’s over three months ago. I’m not sure if they keep the records that long.”
“Would you mind giving it a try?”
“Be happy to, if it’ll help clear Tim’s name.”
I gave her my cell phone number and asked her to call when she had something.
When we met back in the corridor, I told Jill about my conversation with Sherry. If what I suspected were true, we would know what Boz meant by saying he had played tennis when he should have been elsewhere. But I told Jill I still believed the guy who held the key to everything was Evan Baucus.
“Do you have enough to pin the murder on him?” she asked.
I frowned. “Not yet. Everything is circumstantial. We need to place him inside the National Seashore, on that road to the boat ramp.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I don’t know yet. There must be a way.”
“I have a suggestion,” she said, with that look in her eye.
I grinned. “Okay. Let’s have it.”
“Greta Baucus isn’t here.”
“I know.”
“Why don’t I see if she’s at The Sand Castle? Go have a little chat with her, if she’s willing. Who knows, she might slip up again like she did with that comment about the phone call.”
After what Jill had gotten out of Sherry Hoffman, I wasn’t about to discourage her. I handed over the cell phone and the number Baucus had given me. There was only one problem.
“Don’t you imagine he has the phone with him here?” I asked.
She smiled. “From what I’ve seen of Miss Greta, I don’t think she would agree to stay at home all day without a means of communication.”
I nodded. “He could carry a pager. And Detrich likely has a phone with him. But what if Greta has her own cell phone?”
“Let’s see,” Jill said.
She punched in the number and smiled. Greta had answered. After a chummy few minutes of chatter, Jill handed the phone back.
“Give me the car keys and I’ll head on over there,” she said.
“How’s the arm? Think you can make it okay?”
“I’ll be all right. Us Private Eyes have to be tough.”
Laughing, I gave her the keys. She was hardly out the door when my phone rang. I saw Ted Kennerly’s number on the ID screen.
“My man on the coast came through,” Ted said when I answered.
“What do you have?”
“Well, Boss, it’s rather interesting. He found all the basics you’d expect—former local address, driver’s license, voter registration, employment record.”
“Who was the employer?”
“Outfit called Pacific Assets, a venture capital firm in LA. That’s what made my man a little suspicious. He remembered the name from somewhere. When he checked out Pacific Assets with an FBI friend, he was told a lot of its ventures were allied with the mob. Just on a hunch, he decided to dig a little deeper. He got the names of a few higher ups in the company, called and asked for the secretary of one of them. My guy is a real bullshitter. He gave her this story that he was writing some personality pieces for a small local newspaper. He asked how long she had worked there and was told ten years. He said oh, then you were there when Evan Baucus was. She’d never heard of him.”
“That is interesting,” I said. “I’ll have to say your contact really went all out on this.”
“He wasn’t finished. Still not satisfied, he checked out the supposed home address. Nobody around there had heard of Baucus, either. So it looks like your man definitely has an assumed identity.”
“With a possible mob connection. That fits with what your buddy in New York told us about Perseid. Now the question becomes, who is he really?”
“I hope you have some ideas,” Ted said.
Right after we had started talking, Baucus, Detrich and their friend passed me heading back into the hearing room, carrying soft drinks.
“Just might have the answer,” I said. “I’d better get onto it. Thanks a million, Ted.”
49
I hurried back into the room. Before returning to my seat, I stood behind the chairs and took a careful look around. Boz and his lawyer sat on the right side, just in front of Walt. The Sand Castle principals and their companion were seated at the left end of a row. They had switched places, with Baucus now on the outside, the slick-looking lawyer type in the middle and Detrich on the right. I noticed Detrich with a Coke can. The man in the center was drinking something orange, and Baucus was swigging a bottle of water.
Detrich was called to testify next. As he moved to center stage, I sat beside Walt and whispered in his ear.
“I’ll be moving about shortly, and I don’t want anybody to notice me. So when I get up, don’t look around.”
As the panel at the table began to grill the contractor, he gave them a truly gargantuan look of innocence and told the same lies he had used on me. He just followed the plans he had been given by Baucus. He assumed they were correct. He had no idea why the specifications would be different from those Tim Gannon had in his files. I could see Walt getting agitated, and I decided to get away from him before he let go with an outburst that would attract attention to me.
I moved around the chairs, careful to avoid the TV cameras, circled to the left and took an empty seat two rows back of Baucus. The bottle sat on the floor beside his chair. It still held water. I kept my eye on the spot and saw him lift the bottle now and then to take a drink. When he appeared to push the container back a little farther than before, I presumed he was finished.
After he had ignored the water for several minutes, I made my move. The young man sitting directly behind Baucus appeared to be a reporter. He occasionally jotted notes on his pad and seemed to be concentrating his attention on the questions and answers.
Quietly, I moved beside the reporter. I reached down casually, grasped the water bottle by the cap and pulled it back, staying well behind Baucus. Then I headed for the door.
Out in the corridor, I looked around. I needed a paper bag. Of course, there was nothing like that in sight. I saw a trash can near the outside door, however. Carefully placing the bottle on the floor, I fis
hed around in the garbage and found a slightly used McDonald’s bag. Fortunately, whoever discarded it had finished their burger and fries. I shook out a napkin and a foam container, then dropped the water bottle inside. I took out my cell phone, dialed Red Tarkington’s pager and left my number.
After I had loitered about the corridor for ten minutes, Red called.
“What’s up, Greg?”
“Could you lift some fingerprints off a water bottle for me?” I asked.
“No problem. Who you got?”
“The developer. I sneaked the bottle out of the hearing room when he set it down. One of Ted’s contacts found out his name isn’t really Evan Baucus. I hope we can find out who he is.”
“You want me to run a check on the prints?”
“It would sure help. I wish there was some way we could get a quick match.” My experience had been it could take up to two weeks to get a routine report back from the FBI.
“Looks like this is your lucky day,” Red said. “Remember my tale yesterday about the young lieutenant whose ass I saved on Perdido Key?”
“Yeah.”
“His dad is chief of the Latent Fingerprint Section of the FBI Identification Division. He told me if I ever needed a favor, just ask. Only trouble is, I won’t be back on base for a little while. Where are you?”
When I told him, he said he wasn’t far away at the Federal Courthouse.
“Okay if I bring the bottle to you there?”
“Bring it on.”
I called for a taxi and walked out in front of the building. Traffic was light along the street as the late morning sun beamed down. Overhead a Navy chopper cruised noisily across the city. The taxi arrived in about ten minutes and drove me to the Federal Building, where I met Red at the U.S. Attorney’s office. Red took the bag and promised to call my cell phone during the afternoon. The cab driver dropped me back at the county building and I returned to the hearing room just in time for the lunch break.
“What happened?” I asked Walt.
He had a disgusted look on his face. “Detrich produced reams of papers that didn’t amount to a hill of beans. Said they showed how he had followed the plans. He told a lot of lies. Like how he had complained to Tim about some of the specs. I wanted to get up and shout it was the other way around.”
Designed to Kill (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) Page 22
