Designed to Kill (Greg McKenzie Mysteries)

by Chester D. Campbell

  “Did they get to Baucus?”

  “Yeah. They aren’t finished with him. Won’t get much out of him, though. He told the tale about Ollie O’Keefe stealing his plans. Said there was no way they could have been altered. He kept them in his office until the copies were made for Detrich and Farnsworth. When the questioning got too sharp, the lawyer objected. Said they faced the possibility of lawsuits. Couldn’t talk about a lot of things.”

  The nearest eating place was a small sandwich shop that was jammed during the lunch hour. It had a counter with a row of round stools and tables along the wall. A glassed-in area at the end of the counter held containers with chicken salad, ham salad, tuna salad and salads of unknown origin. A mirror ran along the wall behind the counter, with a Pepsi sign in the center that displayed the menu.

  When Walt and I finally made it onto the stools, I ordered tuna salad and he asked for hot pastrami. The harried waitress in a green and white uniform, a pencil stuck in her Orphan Annie red hair, frowned.

  “We don’t have pastrami, hot or cold. We got what’s on the menu.” She pointed over her shoulder.

  Walt shook his head with a grim look. “Ham and cheese.”

  She nodded. “You got it.”

  While we were waiting, my cell phone rang. I hate when people jabber on their cell phones in restaurants. I didn’t normally carry the thing with me, but too much hung in the balance at this stage. I pulled the phone out and answered.

  “Where are you?” Jill asked.

  “In a sandwich shop waiting for my tuna salad. Where are you?”

  “Just about to leave The Sand Castle. It’s been a revealing trip.”

  “Did you come up with something significant?”

  “You be the judge. Will the hearing continue after lunch?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

  As we ate, Walt wanted to talk about what was in store for New Horizons Architects and Engineers—they had only a junior architect and no structural engineer now. But I couldn’t carry on an intelligent conversation for puzzling over what Jill could have dug out of Greta Baucus. Could she possibly know something that might put her husband in the area where Tim was shot? That seemed like too much to ask.

  The hearing was to resume at 1:30. Walt and I made it back with about twenty minutes to spare. Jill arrived ten minutes later, a Chessy cat grin on her face. We sat in the back of the hearing room and I prodded her about her visit with Greta Baucus.

  “She’s quite a character,” Jill said. “Remember Mr. Quinn telling us he didn’t believe she was as dumb as she let on? Well, she definitely isn’t. You should have heard some of the gossip she told me about the good folks in Biloxi. She knows where all the bodies are buried.”

  “And what about her hubby?” I asked.

  “I got the feeling she’s not too sure about him. He told her he has no close family except for a few cousins in California. But he never writes or calls or communicates with them in any way. When she suggested going out there for a visit, he told her in no uncertain terms that he was not interested in going back to California.”

  “And for good reason,” I said.

  I told her what Ted’s contact on the coast had found out about the so-called Evan Baucus.

  She smiled. “Greta knows he isn’t all that he claims to be, but she isn’t sure exactly what he is.”

  “I’m not either, yet. What other tidbits did she offer?”

  “One weird secret, but I’m not really sure what to make of it.”

  “A secret?”

  “Remember the secret boat house in back of their place in Biloxi?”

  “Yeah. She tell you what’s in it?”

  “A fishing boat.”

  That didn’t seem like much of a secret. “Deep sea fishing boat?” I asked.

  “Nope. A plain old fishing boat. Probably like those bass boats we see heading for the lakes back home.”

  I gave her a baffled look. “What the devil is so secret about a fishing boat?”

  “Greta says her husband is a closet fisherman.”

  “And what, pray tell, is a closet fisherman?”

  “When things get tense, he likes to go fishing by himself to relax and unwind. But he doesn’t want anyone to know. You see, he isn’t interested in big boats or deep-sea fishing. And he’s afraid he’ll be looked down on if it becomes known among his big-shot friends that he’s a man who just likes to go out on the river and catch small game fish. So he keeps his boat locked away and won’t let anyone see it. He takes it out to fishing spots where no one knows him.”

  I nodded. “That’s the answer to why he looked so tanned in the Perseid Partners brochure pictures. Quinn told us Baucus didn’t frequent the tennis courts or golf courses. He gets his tan in the fishing boat.”

  The chairs were beginning to fill, and Walt came back to warn us the hearing was about to resume.

  “Greta said he doesn’t bring his boat to Perdido Key, of course, but he does some fishing here at night.”

  That nearly stopped my heart. I stared at Jill. “Did she say where?”

  Startled by my reaction, she hesitated, then said, “Just somewhere nearby on the Key.”

  “Stay here,” I said. “I need to go use the phone. I have to find Ranger Alvarez.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to know if Evan Baucus has a Night Owl Pass for the National Seashore.”

  50

  Out in the corridor, I called Ricky Alvarez’ pager and left my number. The phone beeped about ten minutes later.

  “I wondered if you were still around, Mr. McKenzie,” he said. “Have you come up with any answers to your questions?”

  “I’m hoping you can help. Are you at Johnson Beach now?”

  “No, I’m at the headquarters at Gulf Breeze.”

  Gulf Breeze was a small town across the three-mile-long bay bridge from Pensacola. A shorter bridge to the south led to Pensacola Beach. Adjacent to Gulf Breeze was Park Headquarters for the Florida District of the Gulf Islands National Seashore.

  “As I recall, you keep the list of Night Owl Passes at your Johnson Beach office,” I said.

  “That’s right.”

  “I need to know if Evan Baucus holds a pass. Will you be going back there this afternoon?”

  “Within the next hour or two. I could look it up to be sure, but I don’t recall that name.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you would,” I said. “Call and let me know what you find.”

  I went back into the hearing room as they were winding down the questioning of Baucus. Jill whispered that she hadn’t heard anything that struck her as significant. When the proceedings ended just before two o’clock, Redding advised that his staff and the engineering firm conducting the investigation would go through all of the testimony and report their findings in a couple of weeks.

  Baucus, Detrich and Boz carefully avoided us as they left quickly. Walt made an equally hasty departure, saying he needed to get back to Nashville. While walking to the lot where Jill had parked the Camry, I told her about my conversation with Ricky Alvarez.

  “And if Baucus has a Night Owl Pass?” she asked.

  “Then he knows the combination to the gate lock. He would be familiar with the access road to the boat ramp. He could have driven up the beach and walked across. That piece of information would put us much closer to pinning a murder on him.”

  “What next?”

  I shrugged. “We head back to Gulf Sands and wait. That’s the hardest part of an investigation.”

  We had gone only a few blocks, though, when the cell phone rang. Jill answered it. After listening for a couple of minutes, she turned to me.

  “It’s Sherry. She says the tennis center found their records for July fifteenth—they were in the computer. Anyway, Boz was there all afternoon.”

  “They’re sure?”

  “That’s what she said. You want me to ask again?”

  Noting my fr
own, she asked again. She was quiet for a few moments, then thanked Sherry and ended the call. “Sherry talked to the pro and asked if he was certain about the date. He said he remembered because it was just before he left on vacation. He beat Boz two straight sets that day. Said Boz got so agitated he wouldn’t quit playing until he had won a set.”

  I grinned. This was the opening I had been looking for. I pulled into a nearby service station, found a place to park and called Boz’s office. I figured he would head there after he left the hearing.

  A rather snappish voice answered. “B. F. Inspections. Farnsworth here.”

  “This is Greg McKenzie,” I said. “I need to talk to you right away. I can be there in ten minutes.”

  “Forget it, McKenzie. Didn’t the sheriff warn you to stay away from me?”

  “I have no intention of harassing you,” I said.

  Boz was adamant. “I have nothing to say to you. I can’t tell you any more about Tim Gannon, and I said all I’m going to say about that balcony at the hearing.”

  “I think you had better talk to me before I talk to the building inspector,” I said. I spoke slowly and distinctly. “I know where you were the afternoon the balcony was poured.”

  After a long period of dead air, Boz was back with resignation in his voice. “Come on over.”

  We reached his office in less than ten minutes. We found him sitting behind his desk as before, but considerably less confrontational this time around.

  “Where was I?” he asked, leaning across the desk with a troubled look when we had taken our seats.

  “At the tennis center,” I said. “They have your playing times in their computer. Also, the pro specifically recalls playing with you that afternoon. It was the day before he left on vacation. He beat you two straight sets and said you wouldn’t quit until you won a set. You were not around when they poured that balcony. That’s why you didn’t have any digital photos with your certification report.”

  Boz sat back and folded his arms, fear in his eyes. “What do you plan to do with this?”

  “Forget it...providing you give me straight answers to some questions and back me up, if necessary.”

  “I don’t guess I have any choice, do I?”

  “None.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “You were obviously aware that the rebars and concrete specified in the plans you and Detrich had were insufficient. Why didn’t you speak up?”

  “It appeared to me that Tim Gannon had screwed up.”

  When he paused, I said, “So?”

  “I didn’t say anything because I wanted it to reflect on Tim when the cracks started showing up. I had no idea it would lead to something like the balcony collapsing. That shouldn’t have happened but for the hurricane damage.”

  “You had no inkling that the specs had been changed?”

  “I ignored the possibility. I liked the idea of blaming it on Tim.”

  Jill had certainly been right on track with her assessment of Boz’s jealousy. But I still hadn’t come up with the information I was really after.

  “Did Claude Detrich say or do anything to make you suspicious?” I asked.

  “He told me not to let Tim see my copy of the plans.”

  “Why?”

  “Said he was having trouble with Tim over some items that would save money.”

  “What kind of items?”

  “Minor things, like plumbing fixtures.”

  I nodded. “Did he indicate the plans had been altered?”

  “Detrich never admitted anything, but I got the feeling some changes had been made before I got my copy of the plans. Why else would he not want me showing them to Tim?”

  “Do you think Baucus would have had anything to do with altering the plans?”

  Boz sneered. “Ha. If he wasn’t a part of it, he knew everything that went on. But I’d say he organized the deal. He wants everybody to know he’s in charge. And he was the one who insisted on doing whatever was necessary to save money.”

  “Did he pay you anything to keep you quiet?”

  “Hell, no!” He said it a little too loudly, I thought, considering what his old college roommate had said about him. But I let it go.

  “Okay,” I said. “Here’s the deal. Jill is a witness to everything you’ve told me. When I paint the picture the way you described things, I expect you to back me up if necessary. As long as you cooperate, we forget about the tennis center.”

  The cell phone in my pocket beeped. I pulled out the phone and answered.

  “Hi, Greg. This is Red.” He sounded excited. “Your prints paid off. They belong to a guy named Wilson Fletcher. Last known address: Cheyenne, Wyoming.”

  “Great job, Red,” I said. “I’ll get right onto it.”

  “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Will do.” I punched the off button.

  Then I looked back at Boz, who appeared a little more relaxed now that he seemed to have things under control again. “Don’t forget our deal,” I said. “We’ll get back to you if we need you.”

  51

  On the drive back to Gulf Sands, I outlined my plan for Jill. There were still some holes to plug. I didn’t have everything I needed yet, and success depended on each little piece falling into place. We drove up in front of the condo around 3:30. As we approached, I watched carefully for any sign of strangers keeping the building under surveillance. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. To play it safe, I parked at the opposite end from where my Jeep sat.

  At the entrance to our unit, I checked the small piece of broom straw I had closed the door on as a telltale. It was still in place, meaning no one had opened the door while we were gone.

  “I’d better get onto my exercises,” Jill said as I let her in. “I’ve been sitting around all day.”

  “Not all day,” I said. “You made a rather productive jaunt out to The Sand Castle this morning.”

  She grinned. “I’m glad you have come to appreciate my investigative talents.”

  I gave her a kiss and a pat on the bottom. “I have long known you possess many talents, babe.”

  While she headed to the bedroom for her stretching routine, I sat down with the telephone and called the police headquarters in Cheyenne, Wyoming. I got a sergeant who seemed quite knowledgeable about the town and its inhabitants. As soon as he heard the name Wilson Fletcher, his voice roared through the phone.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve found the son-of-a-bitch!”

  “I believe I have,” I said.

  “Dead or alive?”

  “Very much alive.”

  “You sure it’s him?”

  “Unless he borrowed the fingerprints. Goes by the name Evan Baucus.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s president of a real estate development firm. They’re involved in a high rise condo just outside Pensacola, Florida.”

  “Damn. I knew him pretty well,” the sergeant said. “I ran into him a lot of times fishing on the Crow River. He was always full of bullshit. He was certainly capable of pulling off something like that.”

  “I’m told he claims to have been to law school but never took the bar exam.”

  “Yeah? Fact is, he was disbarred as a lawyer here for falsifying documents in real estate transactions.”

  Apparently he had parlayed his real estate knowledge into the big time.

  “Have the authorities in Wyoming been looking for him?” I asked.

  “Not for a while. He pulled a disappearing act five or six years ago. Left his wife and daughter. Wife filed a missing persons report. He’s pretty clever, though. Didn’t leave a trace.”

  “He’s got a new wife,” I said. “They live in Biloxi, Mississippi.”

  “The hell you say. And he’s doing real estate projects, huh? That’s how he got in trouble, you know, handling legal stuff for local developers. Wonder where he got his money?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  But I had so
me real good ideas. I suspected Perseid, Ltd. with its mob connections had provided his new identity and the money to finance his ventures. I thanked the sergeant for his help and promised to call back as soon as I learned anything else.

  I walked into the bedroom where Jill sat tugging on her pulley. “I’ve got some news you can relay to Greta next time you see her,” I said.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Wilson Fletcher, alias Evan Baucus, has a wife and daughter back in Wyoming.”

  She grinned. “Oh, boy. She’s not going to like that.”

  “I think you’re right. Are you about finished there?”

  “This arm is about to finish me.” She removed her hands from the grips and flexed her fingers. “I miss flying my plane, Greg. I’ve got to get through this.” She smiled, dismissing it. “Somewhere we need to go?”

  “If I don’t hear from Ricky soon, we should head over to the Seashore.”

  She headed toward the kitchen. “How about a cappuccino while you wait?”

  I nodded. “I’ll be out on the balcony.”

  While Jill fixed our drinks, I sat in one of the white plastic lounge chairs and tried to let my mind roam free. Maybe something crucial about the case would slip in unbidden. That was my hope, anyway. I checked my watch, which showed shortly after four. Sundown, when the park closed, would be around five now that we were back on standard time. We’d have to leave soon.

  High in the sky a small plane with a red tail, indicating a Navy trainer, flew toward the shore. Two surfers were out in the water just below Gulf Sands, attempting to ride the breakers with limited success. Though the waves were not particularly high, the surfers were obviously rookies. They spent more time in the water than on their boards. As I watched them, Jill came out with our cappuccino and set the cups on the low plastic table between our chairs.

  “Have you got it all figured out yet?” she asked as she took her seat.

  “Not quite,” I said. “I have that old uneasy feeling that I’m missing something. Something that’s right in front of my eyes but I can’t see it.”