Jill’s eyes widened. “Are you on your way over there?”
Walt sat on the sofa, hunched over, leaning short arms on his legs as he answered. “I’ve just come from there.”
“What did you find?” I asked.
“They had a private security guy in the lobby. He said both the developer and the contractor had gone back to Biloxi. And the elevator was locked off from the penthouse.”
“Right. The sheriff considers it a crime scene. Probably until they get the investigation done regarding the balcony collapse.”
“Well, I let the guard know who I was. And why I needed to see what had happened.”
“What did he say?”
Walt shrugged. “After I dangled a fifty in front of him, he decided it probably wouldn’t hurt to take a look. So long as we didn’t touch anything.”
“Did you see anything of interest?”
His blue eyes flared with anger. “That damned balcony was not built according to specifications.”
“How do you know?” Jill asked.
“The exposed rebars I saw were smaller than what we specified. No wonder it gave way.”
What I know about construction wouldn’t fill much more than a matchbook, but I knew those steel bars imbedded inside were what made reinforced concrete a popular building material. I presumed the larger they were, the stronger the concrete would be. “You’re sure about that?” I asked.
“Hell, I’m a stickler for details. What I saw looked no larger than number eight rebars. The specs called for number eleven. If I had the plans, I’d show you.”
A silence fell over the room as we realized the impact of that statement. The plans were missing.
That prodded Walt to ask, “Have you seen anything of the blueprint case Tim had with him?”
“It’s not around here,” I said. But his question spawned another idea. “We found Tim’s laptop on a desk in the bedroom. Could the plans possibly be in it?”
His eyes brightened. “Damn. I never thought about that. I’m sure he copied the file from our PC to it.”
I brought the laptop in and handed it to Walt. He set the machine on the coffee table, opened the cover and pressed the power button. As we watched and waited, the Windows operating system loaded, accompanied by a horde of colorful icons flashing on the screen. Walt found the program he needed and checked the directory. Listed among the files was “Sand Castle Plans.”
He double clicked the file name and the screen went blank.
Frowning, he followed the same procedure again, with the same result.
“Why don’t you check the file properties?” I suggested.
When he clicked on Properties, we had the answer. It showed the file had been modified on Saturday at 1:32 a.m. Under size was the notation “0 bytes.”
“The contents of the file have been erased.” Despair crinkled the corners of Walt’s eyes.
“And it was apparently done at 1:32 a.m. the morning Tim died,” I said.
Walt shook his head. “But why would he have erased it?”
“He couldn’t have,” I said. “Remember, the surveillance tape showed him entering the Seashore around one.”
“Then who did?”
“That’s a question I’ll have to find the answer to.”
I recalled something I had learned before retiring from the OSI. “There’s a possibility that file can be restored, Walt, if the defrag program hasn’t been run since it was erased. You’ll need to take the laptop to an outfit that specializes in data recovery.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” he said.
“Check in the Yellow Pages.”
“How can they find a file that’s been deleted?”
“As I understand it, the file is still there, as long as it hasn’t been written over. It just has the tags removed that point to its location on the disk.”
“I’ll check into it when I get back.” Walt rubbed his cheek, where a stubble of beard was beginning to show. “Claude Detrich, the contractor, has a copy of the plans. But why did he use the wrong rebars?”
Good question, I thought. “Shouldn’t the inspector have caught it?”
“Yeah. If he was paying attention. From what Tim said about him, the SOB’s a lot of talk but not much action. I’ve had experience with a few like that.”
Walt told us about an inspector he had encountered on a construction project in Memphis. The man was competent at his job, but lazy. When he went out to the site to inspect a large air conditioner installation, he found there had been a delay and the contractor had not completed the work. Rather than wait for them to finish the job, the inspector said from what he could see they were doing things right, so he would go ahead and sign off on it. When Walt later tested the system, he found the unit had been connected improperly.
While he related his story, Jill had walked into the kitchen. Now she came out with two small bottles of juice hanging between the fingers of her good hand. “Anybody thirsty?” she asked.
Walt chose an orange-banana and I took the raspberry. I didn’t bother to explain this was part of Jill’s campaign to keep me eating light and healthy. Fruit juices were big, as were fresh fruit salads. Admittedly, they’re tasty, but the whole deal had to do with her efforts to keep me from repeating the eating binge that ballooned my belt line during my squabble with the police department.
As we sipped our fruit drinks, Walt sidestepped the painful subject of the accident and told us how he had come to join Tim in starting New Horizons.
“Back in the mid-nineties, I was involved in a project he designed. It happened that I worked out solutions to some unexpectedly knotty problems. A year later, he decided to go out on his own. When he came to me with an offer to take the plunge with him, I didn’t hesitate. It’s been a great five years. I’m a single guy, very independent. Tim gave me the freedom to do my own thing. But he made me a part of the family, too. You heard how the boys call me Uncle Walt.” He looked down at his hands and wrung them in anguish. “I still find it hard to believe he’s gone.”
I knew how he felt and when I looked at Jill, her eyes were moist.
We had decided not to mention the velvet jacket, but I thought an oblique approach might turn up something useful. “You told us about three people Tim dealt with down here—the developer, the contractor and the inspector,” I said. “Was there anyone else he was involved with we should know about? It’s looking more and more like he may have been a victim of foul play.”
After thinking for a few moments, he shook his head. “I can’t recall anyone else.”
“Do the initials ‘SH’ mean anything to you?”
His eyes showed nothing but puzzlement. “No. Where the hell did that come from?”
I smiled. “It was just a shot in the dark. Do you plan to go back to The Sand Castle in the morning?”
“I don’t know what it would accomplish. The people I’d want to talk to are in Mississippi. I might try to call Boz Farnsworth. And I’ll probably go by the Building Inspections Department to see what they know.” His brow suddenly furrowed as he looked up. “Did you find the condo key Tim had?”
“No,” Jill said. “We’ve looked everywhere.”
Walt left for his motel shortly after ten. The newspaper he had given me was Sunday’s. Mostly a wrap-up of Friday night and its aftermath, the stories merely confirmed what Sergeant Payne had told us that afternoon. Along with a few eyewitness accounts were several photos. Included were head shots of Evan Baucus and Claude Detrich. I studied the faces closely, knowing this was a pair I would be meeting soon.
After a long, tiring day that began with an anguishing funeral and ended with a spate of disturbing revelations, Jill and I were thoroughly bushed. We closed the balcony door, switched off the lights and headed for bed, where Jill’s ailing wing had caused a change in our normal routine. Instead of relaxing with arms entwined after a good-night kiss, we lay on our backs now, snuggled side-by-side. With the bedroom window open I could hear the cea
seless pounding of breakers against the beach, a rumbling, splashing sound.
Though Jill was only an indistinct outline in the darkness, her voice came through loud and clear. “What are you thinking?”
She knows me too well to deny I was thinking about Tim and what we had uncovered so far. “I don’t like this business of the missing plans and the missing files. It has to tie in with that collapsed balcony. But who ordered the theft? And also, what the hell happened to our condo key?”
“Walt says those plans would show the contractor used the wrong size bars—rib ...whatever they’re called.”
“Rebars. Yeah, and despite some early misgivings about him, I haven’t had the feeling that Walt was deliberately lying about any of this. But could he have a faulty memory? What if the plans didn’t specify larger rebars? Tim would have known it. Could he have deleted the file here, then called somebody in Nashville he trusted, to do away with any evidence of the blunder there?”
“What about the laptop?” she asked.
“Good question.”
This was shaping up to be a damnably troubling case. The only comparable situation I could recall involved an investigation I worked on back in the eighties. The OSI was ordered to look into a rash of accidents involving a fighter aircraft after rumors that defective parts may have been used by the manufacturer. Tests showed the materials used in fabrication did not meet the specifications called for in the contract. Somebody had substituted something cheaper.
We traced the problem back to a small company that supplied the metal stock for machined parts. The owner was an engineer. We found he had doctored the specification sheets to boost his profits. Unfortunately, his playing fast and loose with the project resulted in the death of a pilot. The owner ended up facing a murder charge. He tried to commit suicide but botched the attempt.
For Sam and Wilma’s sake, I hoped I would be able to prove that Tim’s role in this case was something entirely different.
Chapter 13
The water sparkled like a sea of diamonds beneath the sun’s glare. Breakers crashed white and frothy, the foam scurrying crab-like onto the beach. I actually found myself smiling at the glistening white sand that stretched off to either side as far as I could see. And even though the puzzle I was trying to fit together seemed to get more difficult with each new piece I turned up, getting back into “the game,” conducting a real investigation, had done wonders for my attitude. For a change, the morning view from our Gulf Sands balcony appeared downright charming.
“Breakfast is ready,” Jill called.
I turned away from the railing to find her taking a seat at the white plastic table set with cups of coffee and plates of bagels. A container of strawberry-flavored, fat-free cream cheese sat in the middle, along with the coffee carafe.
“Looks like a great morning for walking,” I said as I joined her.
“Glory be.” She rolled her eyes in amazement. “Last time we were down here, I thought I’d have to beat you with a bamboo pole to get you out on the street.”
I blamed the weather for that—it had been too damned hot. Anyway, I had been better about working to keep in shape since I was nearly done in by a lack of stamina at the climax of that rescue trip a year ago. Most of the time when we came down to Perdido Key, we did our walking on the road up to the National Seashore.
“I thought we’d do the usual,” I said. “See if we can locate the ranger. I’d like to take a look at where Tim’s car was found.”
“I’ll be ready to go soon as I do my exercises.”
As I started painting my bagel pink with cream cheese, the thundering roar of jet engines sent a shock wave through the air. I looked up just in time to see two Navy F-18 Hornets flash by no more than a few hundred yards offshore. No doubt a couple of Blue Angels honing their jet jockey skills. The team gave dress rehearsals occasionally at the Naval Air Station.
“Think we’ll have a chance to see the show this time around?” Jill asked.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On how many problems I run into with this investigation.”
“What kind of problems are you looking for?”
“I never look for problems, babe. But they seem to have no trouble finding me.” I stared morosely at my bagel before taking a bite.
“Maybe this will be different.”
I doubted that. I always figured if things were going too well with a case it meant I was headed in the wrong direction...or overlooking something.
After we finished breakfast, I set up Jill’s pulley device on the bathroom door and she labored through her exercise routine. Catching the look on her face, I knew she would have preferred to be on the balcony watching the dolphins or rambling through some souvenir shop down the beach. But I had to hand it to her, she was determined to do whatever necessary to get her arm back in shape.
It was after eight when we headed downstairs. Since this walk would be more business than pleasure (I guess exercise can sometimes be called pleasure), I had skipped the usual shorts for a pair of khaki pants and a knit shirt. Jill, who always dressed better than me, wore designer jeans and a white top. I also had on my blue and white Titans cap in consideration of the Florida sun’s ultra violent rays.
Gulf Sands was a multi-structure complex, with the office located on the ground floor of the building next door. We made our first stop there. Marilou Edens, a tall redhead with a pixyish look and a demeanor to match, stood behind the counter.
“Well, well, the McKenzie clan is back,” she said in a teasing way, then sobered as she realized the likely reason for our visit. “I’m sorry. I really hate what happened to that Gannon fellow. I know he was a friend of yours.”
I nodded. “He was a fine young man, the son of our best friends. Did you go with the Sergeant to our condo Saturday?”
“I sure did. Is everything all right?”
“No problem. We were just wondering if he was by himself or if there was another officer with him?”
“He was alone. I went in with him. He just looked around, didn’t bother anything, as best as I could tell.”
As I expected, but I felt I had to ask.
“Fine,” I said. “By chance has anyone turned up a key to our unit? The one Tim Gannon had is missing.”
She looked thoughtful. “Nobody’s brought it in here. You think he lost it somewhere? It wasn’t in his car?”
“No, it hasn’t showed up anywhere. I’d appreciate it if you would get Whitley to change the lock on our door.” Whitley was the Gulf Sands maintenance man.
“Sure. I’ll get him onto it this morning. And drop around again while you’re here, okay? You doing all right, Jill?”
“As well as can be expected,” she said. “I had rotator cuff surgery a few weeks ago. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
We left the office and walked across the parking lot, headed toward Johnson Beach Road. I had a strong feeling that key could be critical to finding Tim Gannon’s murderer. But I had no idea at the moment where to start looking for it.
Chapter 14
I could feel another hot day in the making, but as we turned toward the park, a strong easterly breeze fanned our faces, putting a roar in our ears like listening to a conch shell. At least the brisk walk would be pleasant.
We passed more multi-story condo developments on the right and a cluster of wooden houses on the left, odd, boxy structures in weird Florida colors. Beyond the houses, white sand lots languished on streets laid out and paved but starkly deserted. When we approached the National Seashore entrance, Tim Gannon’s elegant architectural design rose off to the right like a towering medieval castle, red-tiled turrets jutting into an expanse of blue he had once inhabited as a Navy pilot. We slowed our pace as we spotted the drawbridge balcony hanging down like a fallen exclamation point, a crude metaphor for the crashing end to Tim’s dreams.
As we walked into the Seashore, Jill glanced around at the metal pipe gate that had been swung to th
e side. Open to the public 8 a.m. to sunset was lettered beside a red stop sign.
“How did Tim get his car through here in the middle of the night?” she asked.
I looked at the sign and at the large locks that hung from the end of the gate. “Since that Blazer didn’t have wings, I guess that’s a question we’ll have to ask.”
The roadway split around the small park entrance building, and I noted the cameras aimed to each side. I flashed our Golden Age Passport for the ranger at the window and got a wave and a “Good morning.”
We walked past dunes covered with scrubby pine, yaupon bushes heavy with clusters of red berries, golden aster, rapier-sharp spines of palmetto and the aromatic evergreen rosemary. As we approached the parking area, the soaring concrete pylons of the Star Pavilion, used for picnics, loomed off to the right above the beach. A string of gray wooden buildings with sloping roofs angled away from it. A white car with green stripes and blue lights was parked beside one of the structures.
I knew the car belonged to the Park Service’s law enforcement division, but I had never met the ranger who drove it. We found him standing in a breezeway between two buildings. He was short and athletic looking, curly black hair, probably late twenties. He wore forest green shorts with a pistol belt and side arm, high-top shoes and a gray shirt on which were pinned a gold badge and a name plate that said ALVAREZ. The name and dark skin indicated Cuban or Mexican.
“Greg McKenzie,” I said, extending my hand. “This is my wife, Jill.”
The ranger smiled as we shook hands. “Ricky Alvarez. Where are you from?”
“Nashville, Tennessee.” I never say Hermitage outside the Nashville area, since few people would be familiar with it. “We’re friends of Sam and Wilma Gannon, parents of the young man who was found shot around here Saturday morning.”
Alvarez’ face sobered. “That was a bad scene. Give your friends my condolences.”
Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4 Page 29
