Deadly Illusions

by Chester D. Campbell

  I wasn’t so sure. “Has he talked about that a lot lately?”

  “I know it’s been weighing on his mind.” She frowned. “Say, are you thinking Mr. Crenshaw might have had something to do with what Damon did or said? That’s pretty far out.”

  Molly still called him Damon, having yet to reconcile the fact she had been married to a man named Chad Rowe.

  “You may be right,” I said. “But I can’t imagine anywhere else you could have learned something that would be so disturbing.”

  “But I don’t know anything.”

  Jill turned to me. “What if Molly really didn’t hear anything, but somebody, for some reason, thought surely she did?”

  “That’s a possibility,” I said. “Molly, do you recall any instances where Mr. Crenshaw acted strangely around you, like he might have been suspicious? Something that made him show unusual concern?”

  She was silent for a full minute, her eyes fixed on the sheet below her folded hands. Finally, she looked up. “The last day I was in the office was a Friday. I agonized over whether to ask for a few days off since I was becoming a nervous wreck about Damon. When I finally made up my mind, I started toward Mr. Crenshaw’s office. The secretary had stepped out for a few minutes, and his door was closed. I was about to knock when I heard him shouting at somebody.”

  “Did you know who it was?” I asked.

  “My door had been open and I was sure nobody had gone in Mr. Crenshaw’s office. I checked the lights on the secretary’s phone, but it didn’t show a line in use. That meant he was using his private line that doesn’t go through our phone system.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I walked back to his door and listened, but I didn’t hear anything else. Then suddenly the door burst open and he saw me standing there. He had the strangest look on his face. It was like shock at first, then hostility. I was already stressed out. When he snapped, ‘What the hell are you doing here, Molly?’ I just went blank. I stammered, ‘Nothing, sir,’ spun around and hurried back to my office.”

  Jill looked down at Molly, her eyebrows pinched together. “Sounds like he thought you were eavesdropping.”

  “I know,” she said. “But I had no idea who he was talking to or what he was saying.”

  Obviously, it was something he didn’t want anyone to hear. “Did he bring the subject up later that day?” I asked.

  “No. But when I finally went in to ask for a few days off, he was unusually curt with me. We normally get along fine. If nothing pressing was in the works, he’d say take off whatever you need. This time he wanted to know what was my problem.”

  “Did you tell him about Chad?” Jill asked.

  “No. At that point I wasn’t too sure of anything myself. I just said I had a problem that was bothering me, and I needed some time off to decide what I should do.”

  A disturbing picture slowly emerged as I considered all the possibilities. I had to admit it was all pure speculation, but we were talking about three days prior to the Bernstein shooting. Crenshaw had been involved with a secretive group of big money businessmen, all of whom had likely suffered the consequences of rising interest rates, thanks in no small part to the Fed chairman. The financial press recognized Dr. Bernstein as the most dominant personality to hold the job in recent memory, and he exercised tight control over the board’s actions. Taking him out could have a profound effect on the Federal Reserve Board’s future direction.

  If Crenshaw were involved in a plot to hire a hit man to kill Bernstein, and if he believed Molly had overheard enough to implicate him in the conspiracy, he could easily have put out the word to eliminate her. And Chad would have been a logical choice to take on the job.

  I was about to step out of the room to call Phil Adamson when a dark-haired man in sunglasses, his bronzed skin and athletic moves those of a tennis player, came through the door. Without the hint of a smile, he looked down at Molly, then glanced around at Jill and me. I recognized Grant Crenshaw from pictures I’d seen in the newspaper.

  39

  “Mr. Crenshaw,” Molly said with a tentative smile. “Nice of you to come by. Meet Jill and Greg McKenzie.”

  “So you’re McKenzie,” he said, a curl to his lip. He thrust out a carefully manicured hand that I took without enthusiasm. His grip seemed powered by muscles of steel. He looked across at Jill. “I understand you’re quite a shot with a .38, Mrs. McKenzie.”

  Jill frowned, coloring slightly. I saw a tear glisten in the corner of her eye. Even disregarding my preconceived notions about the man, I disliked him instantly.

  “Happily the police finally located Molly,” I said, “and she’s quickly getting back to normal.”

  Crenshaw walked over to stand beside the bed. “I trust you’ll be able to return to work soon, Molly. I have several projects that need your attention.”

  “Yes, sir. I hope so.”

  After running a hand through his tousled hair, he turned to Jill and me. “A pleasure meeting you. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I have a meeting to attend.” His voice had a self-exalting air to it. He looked down at Molly. “Stay well.”

  With that, he strode quickly from the room.

  “Is he always that abrupt and aloof?” I asked Molly.

  “He can be a bit difficult at times, but normally he acts very gentlemanly around me. You notice he said ‘stay well.’”

  What I noticed about it was the apparent insincerity. To me it sounded almost like a taunt, as if he meant just try and stay well, see what it gets you. Admittedly, I tended to think the worst of him.

  I turned to Jill. “You and Molly visit a few minutes while I go out and use the cell phone.”

  “You can use my phone here in the room,” Molly said.

  “Thanks, but I think the cell phone would be a little more appropriate at the moment.” I didn’t want her to hear what I had to say, and I knew the digital phone would be a bit more secure.

  I took an elevator down to the ground floor and walked outside the hospital entrance. Finding a quiet, secluded spot near a large redbud tree full of pinkish flowers, I punched in Phil Adamson’s number. While waiting for him to pick up, I recalled the redbud was also known as the “Judas tree,” which seemed appropriate for a place to report on Grant Crenshaw’s activities.

  “I just came across some troubling information from Molly Saint,” I said when Phil answered. I quickly outlined the situation, then added, “I’m concerned about Molly’s safety. Could you get a guard put on her room?”

  “Captain Weathers would probably say you’re moving too fast on too little hard evidence, but after the message we just received, I can probably handle him.”

  “What was the message?” I asked.

  “The FBI just finished out in Gallatin. They dug up a cache of hundred-dollar bills that would rival a major drug bust. Around a half-mil, I understand.”

  That nearly floored me. “Five hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Close to it. I suspect the chief won’t be too eager to take on a figure like Crenshaw, though. He’s pretty powerful around the Metro courthouse. Our best bet would be to turn this over to the Bureau. Let them dig into his phone calls and whatever else they can ferret out.”

  “Yeah. I’m well aware of the problems you can run into when tackling a high-profile businessman.”

  He chuckled. “I hear you.”

  My getting the heave as a DA’s investigator stemmed from the case over which I had criticized Detective Tremaine. The missing girl was the daughter of a bank president who was the chief backer of the district attorney.

  I closed the cell phone and returned to Molly’s room, where Jill and I stayed until a uniformed officer arrived to guard her door.

  ———

  I briefed Jill on what I had done as we drove back to the office.

  “Thank God you did,” she said. “I worried about her after that horrid man had left. I don’t think she wants to believe the worst of him, but I surely do.”

 
; I patted her hand. “He probably won’t be the last to make some uncalled-for remark about what you did. You have to roll with the punches, babe. Don’t let it get to you.”

  She was silent the rest of the way back, and I wasn’t sure of what else to say.

  ———

  After a few sessions with our pastor, Dr. Peter Trent, Jill seemed to put the trauma of that Wednesday night behind her. I knew it still lay not far beneath the surface, however. I decided to hold off for a month or so before urging her to go back to the firing range and resume target practice.

  We learned through Phil Adamson that the FBI launched an immediate investigation into Grant Crenshaw and his operation. I had given them Crenshaw’s private phone number, which he had left with me the first time we talked. The Bureau arranged for Molly’s doctor to order a leave of absence so she could recuperate from unspecified complications of her treatment by her husband. Jill flew her out to a secluded resort in the River of No Return Wilderness Area of Idaho. After hearing about their spiraling descent between 8,000-foot mountains, I was deliriously happy I had stayed in Nashville to take care of business.

  A few weeks later, they arrested Crenshaw and charged him with conspiracy to murder both the chairman of the Federal Reserve Board and Molly Saint, who had taken back her maiden name of Harrison. Crenshaw admitted his role under intense interrogation but, like Damon Saint/Chad Rowe, refused to implicate others. There were, however, several un-indicted co-conspirators. Ted Kennerly learned from one of his FBI contacts that the go-between who hired and paid Chad was believed to be a former CIA officer. The man had dealt with “outside contractors” in overseas operations where the intelligence establishment wanted someone “neutralized.” They speculated that Chad had started out as one of his “contract” agents.

  As usual, we wrapped up the case with one of Jill’s culinary extravaganzas. Instead of a sit-down dinner this time, however, she decided to make it an indoor cookout. She spent days cleaning the house, even though it already looked great with the new paint and carpet. She strung miniature Japanese lanterns to add an outdoorsy flavor―we didn’t trust the weather or the mosquitoes enough to have a truly outdoor event. We invited most of the major players, including Molly, Phil Adamson and his wife, Ted and Karen Kennerly, Art Finley, Bert Quincy, Larry Inman, and Investigator Kevin Tune from Murfreesboro. For good measure, we added Molly’s brother Nick and wife Zori, plus our trusty friends Sam and Wilma Gannon.

  Everyone stuffed themselves on the barbequed salmon, Swedish meatballs, chicken and shrimp kabobs, along with fresh vegetables and fruits with various dips. We wound up with a spectacular fresh strawberry, chocolate and whipped cream concoction, accompanied by coffee and drinks of choice.

  When the chatter subsided a bit, Molly took the floor. She held up her wine glass. “I propose a toast to Jill and Greg. I’m sure I wouldn’t be here today if it hadn’t been for their dogged insistence on tracking me down. I’m happy to say I’ve come to terms with myself, and I learned something about family values in the process.”

  Drinks were gulped between calls of, “Hear, hear.”

  “I learned something about family, too,” Jill said.

  She was perched on the arm of my chair in the den, where we had set up the bar. I don’t know if it was just coincidence, but everybody had mostly avoided the living room. I knew it would take Jill a good while to feel comfortable in there.

  “What did you learn?” Molly asked.

  “Now that we’re firmly settled in Nashville, I need to do a better job of keeping in touch with what little remains of my family.” She explained the relationship with Molly, for those who were not aware of it.

  “And I’d like to offer a toast to this lady here,” I said, putting an arm around Jill. “I definitely could not do without her.”

  She gave me an embarrassed smile.

  “And before things get too serious,” I added, “I want to thank my favorite homicide detective for coming to my rescue that fateful Wednesday evening. Phil, you couldn’t have gotten here at a more opportune time.”

  “Thanks, old buddy,” he said in a droll voice, a departure from his normal no-nonsense manner. “I also saved your rear end on another occasion. It could have put you back on the DA’s you-know-what list.”

  “Oh? When was that?”

  “When I found out you had made an unauthorized seizure of evidence in the case. A certain piece of paper bearing a phone number in St. Louis.”

  That caught me off guard. “What do you mean by ‘unauthorized seizure’?”

  “You took it from the scene of a fire under investigation, my friend.”

  I stared at him, rubbing my chin. “And what basis did you have to think that?”

  “They found your case file among a pile of things in Rowe’s truck. I assume it’s one he stole from your office. Fortunately, they gave it to me.” He grinned. “You’re very thorough in your notes. It would’ve made interesting reading for Captain Weathers.”

  I gave him a nasty look. “What did you do with it?”

  He laughed. “I should say I locked it in my safe for future leverage. Actually, I trashed it.”

  With that, I closed the case.

  Praise for Designed to Kill

  the second Greg McKenzie Mystery

  “Mr. Campbell has written another page-turner...He has filled the story with such convincing characters that are so fleshed-out as to appear alive. I’m eagerly looking forward to the next…adventure. But I sincerely suggest that you don’t miss this one.”

  Shirley Truax, All About Murder Reviews

  “Greg McKenzie…is a wonderful protagonist with an older man's wisdom, crossed with the droll voice of an unrepentant rebel…Campbell's uncluttered prose is the perfect vehicle for a mystery…a thoroughly satisfying read.”

  Brian Kaufman, Roundtable Reviews

  “Greg and Jill are well-written characters; their relationship is loving without being cloying and seems right for a long-married couple…The locale of the book is well described and the reader gets lots of local color as well as thrills and suspense.”

  Lorraine Gelly, Reviewing the Evidence

  “Campbell is a consummate writer…(he) has done it again!…He manages to hang the specter of the wrongfully murdered young architect over a plot that moves along at a rapid clip with plenty of cliffhangers and well-defined characters…A fine second effort!”

  Shelley Glodowski, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

  “A thoroughly enjoyable mystery with an intelligent plot, clever clues and characters who are like people you know.”

  Phillip Margolin, author of nine New York Times bestsellers

  “This book seems more a logic puzzle than a mystery―until the end. That’s just one of the things that makes it a sure-fire delight for anyone who likes lots of suspense and characters who are a lot like the people next door…(it) is filled with vivid and creative imagery as well as demonstrating superb writing skills.”

  Elizabeth K. Burton, Blue Iris Journal

  “We often hear that crime fictions are nothing more than clever escapist puzzles… what differentiates one from the other is the author’s ability to provide ample plot twists that effectively sustain the narrative tension until the last chapter. Here is where Designed to Kill shines.”

  Norman Goldman, Bookpleasures, The Best Reviews

  “Mr. Campbell’s wealth of life experience and military background give him an eye for detail, which is crucial in any mystery. There is a full array of colorful characters…The plotting, pace and dialog are perfect in Designed to Kill. This is a perfect read for the beach or a long winter afternoon.

  Roberta Austin, Murder & Mayhem Book Club

  “So is Designed to Kill as good as Secret of the Scroll. Nope…it’s much, much better…(when) Tim Gannon’s dead body is found…the duo (Greg and Jill McKenzie) investigates, finding out some dark secrets, and shocking revelations…culminating in a …totally unexpected finish. I enjoye
d the book, rather relished the work.”

  Narayan Radhakrishnan, New Mystery Reader

  “Greg McKenzie is an affable hero, ably abetted by his wife, Jill. It’s a cleverly plotted, tightly written book.”

  Sallie Bissell, author of the best-selling Mary Crow series (In the Forest of

  Harm and A Darker Justice)

  “Everything you could want in a mystery. Suspense, colorful characters and a great surprise ending.”

  Don Bruns, author of the highly acclaimed Jamaica Blue and Barbados Heat

  “Greg and wife Jill look into the alleged suicide of their best friends' son in Pensacola, FL. Greg's suspicions of murder are reinforced by faulty rebar use, stolen plans, erased files, a missing key, a hot-tempered builder, a slow-to-pay developer, and a God's-gift-to-women inspector. And then two guys beat Greg up. Plenty of domestic details ground the homey narration.”

  Library Journal

  Praise for Secret of the Scroll

  the first Greg McKenzie Mystery

  Bloody Dagger Award 2nd Place Winner

  ForeWord Magazine Mystery Book of the Year Finalist

  Nominated for the Dorothy Parker Awards

  “A superbly written book with an excellent plot. The action is on-going and riveting.”

  All About Murder Reviews by Shirley Truax

  “One of the finest books I have read in many years…a riveting, edge of the seat book that is set against the backdrop of the modern Middle East.”

  Women on Writing Reviews by Janet Schmidt

  “A thriller in every sense of the word...(Campbell sets) up cliff-hanging situations designed to keep the reader glued to his book...His writing style is as full of energy as his characters.”

  Midwest Book Review by Shelley Glodowski

  “A first person, narrative mystery thriller of the first order...if you like good solid writing, thoughtful characterization and a believable story you’ll enjoy this book.”