Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4

by Chester Campbell

  “Sherry never heard from him, but she never forgot him, either. It was a real shock when she encountered him at the condo project. When she talked about their meeting, I could almost feel the fire it had stirred inside her. Tim told her about his family back in Nashville, of course, but she couldn’t believe he didn’t experience the same depth of passion that had gripped her.”

  I scratched my chin thoughtfully and tried not to sound too skeptical. “Sherry Hoffman just voluntarily bared her soul like this?”

  Jill shrugged. “Well, I asked a few leading questions now and then. Isn’t that what investigators do?”

  “They do.”

  “I also had the feeling she needed someone to talk to. I was not from around here, so I posed no threat. And like I said, we found we had several things in common.”

  “Oh? You mean you had some torrid affair I don’t know about?”

  “Silly. We had both survived the military life. Our fathers were well off. Our mothers had died when we were girls, and neither of us had any siblings. Things like that.”

  I reached over and took her hand. After some thirty-five years, we still do that a lot. “Okay, babe, I confess, you did a great job. But did you find out anything about our friend Boz?”

  Her eyes widened. “I was just about to get to that, which is the really intriguing part.”

  I understood why, once she began her story. Whenever Tim came to Pensacola, Sherry kept after him to go out with her or come to her house for dinner. But he always had an excuse and consistently put her off, except for an occasional lunch. Then one day he mentioned something about the problems he was having with the inspector, Boz Farnsworth. He told her that Boz had begun to nitpick everything about the project. Sherry knew why. Recently Farnsworth had been making a play for her, but after her old lover had showed up, she started keeping Boz at bay. He soon figured out the problem was Tim Gannon.

  Sherry was a schemer, Jill said, and immediately saw the possibilities. She told Tim she could handle Boz, keep him off Tim’s back. But there was a price. Tim would have to accept her invitation to dinner “to discuss what could be done.” When he arrived, she had the table set with candles and wine and the stereo playing soft music. Sherry had set him up with a classic seduction. After dinner and more wine, they went for a skinny dip in the pool and wound up in bed.

  Tim suffered a severe case of wounded conscience and totally avoided her for weeks after that. Jill said the timing corresponded to the period when Tara sensed things had become terribly complicated with her husband. Sherry didn’t like it but kept her side of the bargain, playing up to Boz, urging him to go easy on Tim. She had accompanied Boz to the party last Friday night, though they came in separate cars. After seeing how crushed Tim was by the accident, she skipped out on Boz and drove to our condo a little after eleven to console him.

  “That’s how the red jacket got here,” I said.

  “Right. She said she tried to cheer him up, told him the accident wasn’t his fault. Tim said he knew that. He told her the balcony had not been built according to the specifications he had called for. He had the plans out on the table and showed her where the correct figures were. Of course, she didn’t understand all that construction talk.”

  “Did she say anything about the laptop?”

  “I asked about that. She said he never mentioned the computer and she never saw it. She also said he was calm and didn’t seem to feel any personal responsibility for those deaths.”

  “How did she happen to leave her jacket here?”

  Jill smiled. “They got into an argument over something personal, as she put it, and she got mad and stormed out, forgetting the jacket. I got the impression her temper can be pretty volatile.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Shortly after midnight. She went home, had a couple of drinks and calmed down. Some thirty or forty minutes later, she tried to call Tim but got no answer.”

  “Must have been close to one o’clock,” I said. I presumed Tim was not using the answering machine. We always turned it off when we departed from Perdido Key.

  “Sherry went on to bed and slept late Saturday morning,” Jill said. “She tried to call Tim again, but of course got no answer. Finally, Boz called her around noon. He had heard about Tim’s death from Claude Detrich. Said it was on the radio.”

  “Did you get anything else out of her?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  I reached over and hugged her. “More than enough, babe. You were terrific. And you’re right—I couldn’t have pulled any of that out of her. I told Whitley you were on a fence-mending mission, but you did a hell of a lot more than that.”

  “When did you talk to Whitley?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  I figured it was time to let her in on the mysterious visitors, so I told her what had happened.

  She reached over and gripped my arm, anxiety clouding her face. “Who do you suppose they were, and what were they after?”

  “I wish I knew. The first thing that came to mind was Detrich.”

  She stared at me for a moment, brows knitted. “Should we call Sergeant Payne?”

  “Ha...I suspect the sheriff’s boys would think I made it all up.”

  I described my disgusting interview with Lieutenant Cassel.

  “The Lieutenant wanted to know if I was carrying,” I said. “I told him I wasn’t, but I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea now.”

  That brought a grimace. “I wish you didn’t have to carry that gun, Greg. And I certainly don’t want you to have to use it.”

  She didn’t like guns. I had tried to get her to learn to shoot years ago, for her own protection. But she had refused. She knew I had no choice but to be proficient with firearms. But that didn’t make her any happier with the prospect of my using them.

  “I know,” I said. “And I don’t expect to need the Beretta. But I’m a lot more comfortable having it around.”

  Afterward, we sat in our plastic lounge chairs on the balcony, watching the gulls gather at the beach like a flock of neighborhood kids waiting for the ice cream man. Going over what we had learned, we knew Boz and Detrich had left The Sand Castle separately around eleven and both wound up at a bar down the beach. But we had no idea what time they had left the bar. Baucus, according to his wife, got a phone call somewhere around twelve-thirty and left. Had Detrich or Boz called him? Had one of them called Tim and asked him to meet at the National Seashore?

  When the portable phone on the small table between us rang, I picked it up, checked the number and answered. New Horizons on the ID told me the caller was Walt Sturdivant.

  “I just heard from the computer people,” he said. “They recovered the file.”

  “Great. Here’s what you need to do. Copy the file to a disk, place the disk in an envelope with a signed statement attesting to the facts about the file and how they recovered it. Then seal the envelope and have them sign and date it across the flap. That will give you a legal basis for proving the file existed before Tim’s death.”

  “Will do. Have you had any luck checking out those guys who left?”

  I told him about Oliver O’Keefe.

  “Oh, God. You think it had something to do with this mess?” Walt asked.

  “I think so, but I have no proof. We’re working on it.”

  “Sam called today. Wanted to know if I had heard from you.”

  I had been so busy digging for clues that I had forgotten to call our friends and tell them what we knew. “I’ll fill him in tonight,” I said.

  My watch showed nearly five o’clock when I got off the phone. I found Jill eyeing me with a critical gaze.

  “Do you realize we’ve been down here for three days now and haven’t been to Doc’s yet for shrimp?” she asked.

  I grinned. “Well, we’d better do something about that. How soon can you be ready?”

  “About as quickly as you can say ‘royal reds.’” She finished off her reply with a tacky chuckl
e and headed for the bedroom.

  I twitched my nose and shook my head. Doc’s Seafood Shack and Oyster Bar at Orange Beach, Alabama, a few miles west of Perdido Key, claimed the best shrimp around. Nothing fancy, Doc’s had tables with checkered plastic cloths, a roll of paper towels for napkins and a box full of condiments and hot stuff to mix your own sauce. When it came to shrimp, I normally opted for the peel and eat variety. The last time we were at Doc’s, I noticed a menu item called royal reds, which I assumed was just a minor color change from my usual fare. However, when the waitress brought my plate, I faced an enormous pile of reddish shrimp that looked like they had just come off the boat. Complete with legs, tails, heads and wiry antennae. Jill helped, but by the time we peeled away all those messy appendages, I didn’t have much appetite—or shrimp—left. Royal reds had become a joke with me as the butt.

  When I picked up the holster that held my 9mm Beretta, however, I had no joke in mind. Although I didn’t expect any trouble, I intended to be ready just in case.

  Chapter 32

  The sun sat on the horizon like a large red beach ball as we headed down Perdido Key Drive past the stretch of sand dunes known as Perdido Key State Recreation Area. Except for that brief break in the action, both sides of the road were cluttered with a seemingly endless array of condos, from large elegant projects to small structures that appeared little more than beach houses. A new crop had sprung up every time we came down. Just beyond the Alabama line, a high bridge spanned Perdido Pass, which provided an inlet to Perdido Bay from the Gulf of Mexico. Maybe it was the blinding sun, which now was rapidly disappearing, or maybe it was just a plain lack of concentration, but we were almost to the highway that branched off to the north toward Doc’s before I spotted the black Cadillac in my mirror.

  “I think we have company,” I said.

  Jill looked around. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a black Caddy a couple of cars back. Just like the one that came visiting this afternoon at Gulf Sands.”

  “You think they’re following us?”

  “We’ll soon find out.”

  We were approaching the turn-off. In this flat country, night came almost instantaneously when the sun dipped below the horizon, but both the beach highway and the road heading north were well lighted. As soon as I made my turn, I looked in the mirror and saw the car just behind me continue on down the beach. The Cadillac turned and stayed on my tail. I was happy I had put my Beretta in the Jeep.

  Jill looked behind us. “I see what you’re talking about.”

  “Maybe they’re with the Chamber of Commerce,” I said. “They probably want to be sure we’re eating seafood tonight.”

  “Well, I hope they’re going somewhere besides Doc’s.”

  The road was five lanes here, with plenty of room to pass. I thought that’s what the Cadillac pair had in mind as the black car began to pull around, but then it started crowding us into the curb. I glanced across and saw the guy in the right seat grinning. I was about to hit the brakes to keep the idiot from colliding with my Jeep when I saw a street leading off to the right just ahead.

  I swerved into the side street and gunned the accelerator. I would turn at the next intersection and double back. In the mirror, I saw the Cadillac had started past the street but was backing up to make the turn.

  “Hang on, babe,” I said.

  A street branched off to the right at the end of the long block. I skidded around the corner into it. As soon as the headlights flashed down the road ahead, I knew I had made a big mistake. We faced the tall wooden skeleton of a two-story house under construction. The street was a cul-de-sac. And there would be no sanctuary among nearby residents. The subdivision we had stumbled into was a work in progress. Totally unoccupied.

  By the time I got my Jeep turned around, the Cadillac’s headlights were bearing down on us.

  “Look out, Greg!” Jill yelled.

  I cut my wheels to the left in an attempt to get around him, but the driver turned toward me. We collided in a noisy crash.

  I had been traveling rather slowly, however, and the Cadillac braked just before impact. It was more of a sideswipe, so the air bags didn’t deploy. The damage was no worse than dented fenders, but that was enough to make my blood hit the boiling point. Up to now, my trusty Jeep had not suffered the slightest scratch.

  Of more concern at the moment, however, was Jill. Looking around, I saw her holding her left arm. Her face was drained of color.

  I felt a hollow spot in my stomach. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I—I think so. I got quite a jolt, but I don’t think it did any damage.”

  My headlights were still on. Glancing back toward the Cadillac, I saw two burly characters get out. One appeared close to my height, bushy black hair streaked with gray, heavy brows, dark complexion. The other was shorter, with a balding head and large, querulous eyes. Both men were casually dressed.

  As I pushed the Jeep door open, Jill grabbed my arm, her voice frantic. “Don’t go out there, Greg.”

  “I don’t intend to let these guys intimidate me,” I said, my anger rising. Coercion was one practice I could not stomach. Furthermore, banging into my Jeep definitely required an explanation. “You stay put,” I said.

  I stepped out into the street just as the men walked up.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I said.

  “You’ll find out,” the tall one said, promptly throwing a punch toward my face.

  I ducked the blow, blocking it with my arm, but the shorter man followed with a jab into my midsection. I felt the breath going out of me. I staggered, clutching splayed hands to my stomach. Jill screamed just as the tall guy pounded the side of my head with what felt like something other than a bare fist. My head seemed to explode and flashes of lightning flared before my closed eyes.

  I felt myself falling backward and hit bottom first, then collapsed onto my back. A blow that must have been a kick dug into my left side, then I heard a harsh voice near my ear:

  “You’ve been butting into matters that are none of your business, McKenzie. You’d better get your ass out of here. This was just a sample. You don’t want to know the full treatment.”

  Feeling pain all over, I lay there groggily as I heard the car start and drive away. Then I sensed Jill leaning over me, calling frantically. “Greg, can you hear me? What did they do to you?”

  Slowly, I pushed myself into a sitting position. I felt blood trickling down the side of my face. My head reverberated with a throbbing sensation.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said. Bending down, she pulled out some tissues and began to dab at the blood. “Can you talk?”

  “Yeah. But I can’t think of anything worth saying. Help me up.”

  She tugged at my right arm with her good hand and I struggled to my feet. We were near the Jeep, and when I teetered a bit Jill tugged me toward the vehicle.

  “You’d better get over here where you have something to hold onto,” she said, having gathered her wits a bit more quickly than I had. “You aren’t about to pass out on me, are you?”

  I shook my head, then wished I hadn’t. I only managed to aggravate the pounding inside. “I feel like I’ve been mauled by a big black bear,” I said.

  She handed me a handkerchief to hold against my head. “Shouldn’t I call 911?”

  “What would you tell them? I have no idea where we are.”

  “You’re not going to let those goons get away with this?”

  “They already have,” I said. “I didn’t see the license plate.” Leaning against the Jeep, I reached for the door handle.

  “Let me help you around to the other side. I’ll drive.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?” I asked.

  “I’m sure you aren’t. Let’s go.”

  She clutched my arm as I stumbled around to the passenger side and somehow managed to climb into the seat. Jill returned to the driver’s side and slid in behind the wheel.

 
; “Shall I drive over to the police station?”

  “I have no idea where the Orange Beach police are located,” I said.

  Of course, there was a chance we might run into a police car on the way back to the beach highway, but I doubted it. I’ve always accepted as a truism that the police will never be around when you really need them. “Just take me home,” I said. “I need to rest.”

  She sputtered a moment, then said, “You’re the hardest-headed man I’ve ever known. With the possible exception of my father.” That was the reason she always gave for why her dad and I never got along. She started the Jeep and drove toward the cul-de-sac outlet. “What did those men say to you?”

  My memory, along with everything else, was in a bit of disarray at the moment. But I couldn’t forget that threatening voice in my ear. “The guy—I think it was the big one—said what I got was just a sample. If I didn’t want the full treatment, I had better butt out of their business.”

  “And what is their business?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Then how are you to—”

  “Come on, Jill. It obviously has something to do with this Sand Castle affair. I must have hit a nerve somewhere. I’m getting too close for somebody’s comfort.”

  I wasn’t sure whose nerve I had hit, but it sure looked like Claude Detrich. Were these two goons, as Jill had called them, responsible for Ollie O’Keefe’s murder? Now that I considered the possibilities, could they have been involved in Tim’s death?

  “I think you should go to the emergency room and let them check you out,” Jill said. “You could have some broken bones or a concussion.”

  I finally thought of something almost worth a smile, but not quite. “As you pointed out so succinctly, I have a very hard head. I doubt if anything’s broken there. The only other possibility would be a cracked rib from that kick in the side. If memory serves me correctly, there’s nothing they can do for a broken rib but let it heal. Just take me home where I can get a hot bath. Then you can ply me with TLC. That should make me as good as new.”