From where I sat, that was a given. But if I was going to get anywhere with this investigation, I had to have Walt’s cooperation. So I ignored his orneriness and got to the heart of the matter.
“How about filling me in on the main people Tim dealt with on The Sand Castle project,” I said. “Who’s the top dog?”
“Guy named Evan Baucus. He’s head of Perseid Partners.” Walt spelled out the name. “It’s a development firm located in Biloxi, Mississippi. He’s the one who chose New Horizons to design the structure and do the engineering.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Not a lot. I met him a couple of times when I was down there with Tim. He’s around sixty, Tim said. But not a gray hair in his head. I’ll bet he dyes it. He’s a real dandy and a control freak. Tim said he went to law school but never took the bar exam. Was involved in real estate for a long time. Came from LA, as I recall.”
While Jill and I ate beef stew and Walt devoured a plate of chicken strips, he gave us the sketchy details he had accumulated regarding The Sand Castle development crew. During a tour of the project early in the construction phase, Walt said, Baucus ordered his people around like some kind of third-world tyrant. But as soon as a local official showed up, he made a chameleon shift into an affable, smooth-talking businessman.
“Robbie Renegar told me you’d had trouble collecting on your invoices,” I said.
“Right. Tim had to raise a bit of hell about it. We finally got our money.”
“Did you have any questions about the construction?”
“Tim had problems with the contractor. His name is Claude Detrich, a big bear of a guy, the polar opposite of Baucus. He’s about as suave as a water buffalo.”
“What kind of problems?”
“He wanted to change a lot of specs to save money.”
“Like what?”
“Cheaper plumbing fixtures, for one. Tim said no way. They were selling The Sand Castle as a luxury condo. That meant they had to have top of the line amenities. There were some more serious issues, too. Detrich insisted on always taking the low bid on materials. Tim was concerned with quality, durability.”
“How was it resolved?”
“I’m not sure it ever was. That’s why Tim spent so much time down there. He would argue and cajole and threaten. But he couldn’t be there all the time. They say Detrich is a good old boy who gets along well with his workers. But he likes to act the tough guy with most people. He has a quick temper, doesn’t take well to criticism. Tim was never sure he hadn’t missed something.”
What our waitress lacked in sophistication, she made up in commitment. Walt’s Coke was constantly refilled. The level in our coffee cups rarely dropped halfway. Jill and I normally skip dessert in a restaurant, but the waitress was so insistent that we gave in and ordered the Baked Apple Dumplin.
While waiting for it, I asked Walt about the other person he had mentioned.
“Threshold Inspector,” Walt said. “He’s a structural engineer licensed by the State of Florida. He’s used to oversee large projects. The general contractor hires him, but he’s paid by the developer.”
“He represents the state?”
“He certifies to the state and county that the job meets all specifications.”
“Tell me about The Sand Castle inspector.”
“His name is Bosley Farnsworth. Goes by the name Boz. I understand he came from a prominent Pensacola family. He gave me the impression of being a real snob. I don’t know if that’s why he seemed to dislike us. Whatever, he enjoyed making things rough for Tim. He nitpicked the project at every turn.”
The picture at Perdido Key was getting murkier. No wonder Tim had given Sam the impression that something was bothering him. I now knew there were at least three people in Florida with whom he had serious disagreements. But were any of them serious enough to figure into the questions I faced as an investigator—if Tim Gannon did not kill himself, who shot him...and why?
10
Before leaving the Cracker Barrel, I called the sheriff’s office in Pensacola and advised them we should be arriving between 4:30 and 5:00. A helpful young woman gave me directions to the impound yard behind the headquarters building just off Fairfield Drive. Due to some fortunate planning by the State of Alabama, the northbound lanes of I-65 had been chosen to suffer all the construction woes that day. We hit the Flomaton Exit right on schedule. We sped past white-dappled fields of cotton ready for picking, through forests of pines cultivated for wood pulp, crossed a short section of the Sunshine State and got an odious welcome to paper mill country. Plumes of smoke and an outpouring of unfriendly smells greeted us.
The sun was settling slowly toward the Alabama line when we arrived at the old Spanish port city of Pensacola, the last outpost at the western tip of the Florida panhandle. After coming in through an area of attractive homes on large wooded lots, we found the afternoon rush hour considerably less harrowing than the motorized mayhem we were accustomed to around Nashville. I pulled up to the gate in the high chain-link fence behind the nondescript building on West Leonard Street at 4:45. An officer in green coveralls and a baseball cap stenciled with SHERIFF greeted us.
“I’m Greg McKenzie from Nashville,” I said. “We’re here to pick up Tim Gannon’s Chevy Blazer and his personal effects.”
He nodded. “They told me you were coming. I’m Deputy Erwin. Sergeant Payne is on the way with the personal stuff. The Blazer is over there near the fence.”
He pointed to a nearby cluster of cars, few of recent vintage, most with an assortment of nasty blemishes. I introduced Jill and Walt as we walked toward the white vehicle with the Tennessee plate and an orange UT Vols sticker on the back window.
“I’ll be driving it back,” Walt said. “Do you have the keys?”
The deputy pulled them out of his pocket, unlocked the driver side door and opened it. “You’ll probably want to take it to a car wash,” he said. “It’s just like we found it.”
“Was it checked for fingerprints?” I asked.
Erwin frowned. “What for? We’re talking suicide.”
Just as I figured. Attempting to come up with anything significant now would likely be a useless exercise. No telling how many hands had been on the door handles, not to mention all around inside the vehicle.
“What if the medical examiner had determined otherwise?” I asked.
“Then we’d have gone over it with a fine tooth comb. We’ve had it right here since the wrecker hauled it in.”
“Sergeant Payne told me about the gun and that he had looked for a note,” I said. “Did the crime scene techs check the car before it was moved?”
“You’ll have to ask the Sergeant.”
“Did you find a big blueprint case?” Walt asked. “Tim probably would have kept it in the Blazer.”
The deputy shook his head. “Nothing but the usual contents of the glove compartment. Gas receipts, insurance card, registration slip, Band Aids, that sort of thing.”
“There should have been a key to my condo,” I said.
“Not unless it’s one of these.” Deputy Erwin held out Tim’s key chain, which was attached to a white medallion bearing a large orange T.
I shook my head as Walt took the keys from him and started to slip into the Blazer. Logically, Walt was well aware that Tim had died in this vehicle, but the full impact did not hit him until he glanced down and saw the large splotch of dark red on the seat. His face blanched as the horror hit him.
“Oh, shit,” he mumbled.
Jill saw the blood, too, and turned away, shaking her head, eyes closed.
Now they knew why the deputy had suggested taking the Blazer to a car wash. “We’ve got an old beach towel in the back of the Jeep,” I said. “I’ll lay it across the seat and cover that.”
I walked over to my Jeep to grab the frayed towel, then spread it out on the seat of the Blazer. At the sound of a car driving up, I turned to see a white police cruiser with green stripes
and markings of the Escambia County Sheriff’s Office. SERGEANT was painted on the front fender. The deputy who stepped out, carrying a brown plastic bag, was awesome in size. He made my somewhat stocky five-ten frame look undernourished.
The sight brought a momentary flashback to my childhood, when I would stand in awe of my father, a huge Scot with a bushy black beard and a boisterous laugh. He looked like a character out of the movie Braveheart. One of the main differences between him and the deputy was a Santa-size belly. A master brewer with Anheuser-Busch in St. Louis, my dad took product loyalty to the extreme.
“Sergeant J. W. Payne,” the deputy said as he strode toward me. “You must be McKenzie.”
“That’s right, Sergeant,” I said. “This is my wife Jill, and this is Walt Sturdivant, vice president of New Horizons Architects and Engineers.”
The deputy shook Walt’s hand, then spoke in a deep, resonant voice. “You worked for Mr. Gannon?”
Walt nodded. “I plan to drive the Blazer back after taking a look at The Sand Castle.”
“I expect the Building Inspection Department folks will want to talk to you. They’re putting together a team to investigate what kind of flaw caused that accident.”
“The Sand Castle was designed to last a lifetime,” Walt said, eyes narrowed. “If a balcony fell, the contractor must have screwed up.”
“That’s not the tale they’re telling,” Payne said.
Walt frowned. “The contractor?”
“Yes, sir. And the developer. I understand they say the design was faulty.”
“That’s a crock.” Walt’s voice was almost a growl. “We’ll see when they check the plans and specs.”
I pointed to the bag the sergeant held. “Is that Tim’s personal effects?”
“His billfold, change, articles from his pockets. I’ll need you to sign for them.”
He held out an inventory sheet with a place for my signature. I compared the contents of the bag with the list, then took the ballpoint he offered and penned my name.
“Sergeant, did your crime scene techs check out the car and the area around it at the Seashore?” I asked.
His face hardened into stone. “There was no call for it. This was an obvious case of suicide.”
“You didn’t consider the possibility that a thorough check of the scene might turn up evidence of foul play?”
Payne’s teeth clenched and his jaw twitched. “I was sure it wouldn’t.”
I decided I had provoked him enough for the moment. “Did you ever find my condo key?”
“No, sir.” He struggled to keep his composure.
“What about a large case with blueprints in it?” Walt used his hands to describe the case’s dimensions.
Payne shook his head. “Nothing like that.”
“Did you see anything resembling it in our condo?” I asked.
“No, sir. I guess it could have been covered up somewhere.”
That seemed unlikely. A condo key was missing, also a case full of plans. I had no idea what that might mean, but I didn’t like the sound of it. “We haven’t been to Gulf Sands yet, Sergeant. I’ll give the place a thorough going over when we get there.”
Payne cocked his head. “How long you intend to stay down here?”
I shrugged. “That depends on what I find.”
He raised the Stetson to mop his brow with a large white handkerchief. The sun was merciless, the afternoon still hot. “What would you be looking for?”
“Tim Gannon’s dad is one of our closest friends. He asked me to find out who killed his son.”
The big man’s scowl deepened. “Excuse me, sir, but we already know that. The man obviously killed himself. The Medical Examiner certified it as a legal fact.”
I held the bag of Tim’s belongings in one hand and took Jill’s arm with the other, turning her toward my Jeep. “Let’s just say I’m a born skeptic, Sergeant Payne. After I’ve assembled some of the details, maybe we can get together for a little powwow.”
“There’s one thing you need to know before you go flying off on some sort of crusade, Mr. McKenzie.” There was a sharp edge to his voice. “I didn’t mention it on the phone Saturday because our investigation wasn’t complete.”
I stopped and turned to face him. “What do I need to know, Sergeant?”
“There are surveillance cameras at the ranger station where you enter the National Seashore. They cover both the entrance and exit lanes. The ranger went through the whole night’s tapes. They show Mr. Gannon’s vehicle going into the park just before one a.m.”
“And what did it show coming out?” I asked, though I was sure I knew the answer.
“Nothing else went in or out between midnight and six in the morning.”
I felt Jill’s hand squeeze my arm. She knew things had just become much more complicated. But I wasn’t ready to back down.
“Did anyone check the beach for tire marks?” I asked.
“Tire marks?”
“Right. Someone could have driven up the beach. Trucks do it all the time doling out and picking up rental chairs and umbrellas. They could have parked up by the picnic area and walked in.”
Payne smiled and shook his head. “You’re really grabbing at straws now. Let me tell you what happened that night. You’d have thought the roof had fell in on Gannon when I told him two people were dead. His face turned white as a sheet and his hand shook when he picked up a glass. A little later, I saw him looking out the door at that crumpled hunk of concrete. He just shook his head like he’s thinking, what in God’s name have I done?”
“What time was the accident?”
“Somewhere around nine. I was just winding up with a DUI down the beach when I got the call. It was 9:20 when I got there. The fire and rescue people had arrived, and the paramedics told me we had two casualties. They had fallen fifteen stories from that balcony. I went right up to the penthouse and confronted Gannon and this Baucus fellow with what they’d done. Gannon was real shook up, but Baucus quickly let it be known he wasn’t responsible. He just put up the money and ran the show.”
“More bullshit,” Walt said from the driver’s seat of the Blazer. “Was Detrich, the contractor, there?”
The deputy stood for a moment with his large hands on his hips and stared at Walt. “He was there. I didn’t know who he was at first. I saw him standing with Baucus, being interviewed by a TV guy. When I went over to talk to him, he said he didn’t know what had happened. He’d just built the building according to the plans he’d been given.”
“I’ve heard enough of this crap,” Walt said. He looked across at me. “I’m going to check in at the motel and get a bite to eat. I’ll be out to see you in a couple of hours.”
“Can you find the place okay?” I asked.
He nodded. “Tim took me over there once when I was down.”
As he slammed the door, I turned back to Payne. “When did you last see Tim?”
“I guess it was after ten-thirty, maybe around eleven. The firemen and rescue people had left. The injured had been taken care of. The place was still crawling with news people. I got everybody out of the penthouse and closed it off with crime scene tape. Gannon really looked like hell. They said he’d helped pull some people off the balcony. His shirt was sort of ripped and his arms were scratched up. I didn’t see him drinking, but there was lots of booze up there. And I’d seen him having some words with Baucus and Detrich. Don’t know what that was all about. Gannon went out the front entrance looking real haggard and hollow-eyed. That’s the last I saw of him until Saturday morning at the Seashore.”
Walt roared past in the Blazer as Jill and I got into my Jeep. I looked around at her. “You’ve been awfully quiet, babe. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking you’ve got big problems, Greg. Were you serious about somebody driving up the beach?”
“You’re damned right I was. You’ve seen the trucks. It would have been no problem.”
“Well, that deputy’s mind
is made up, and you’re not going to change it.”
I nodded as I started the Jeep and headed for the gate. I certainly wasn’t going to change any minds without some evidence. Right now I had a sergeant convinced Tim left The Sand Castle despondent and suicidal, a developer and a contractor ready to swear the accident was Tim’s fault, a missing condo key and two sets of missing plans. I also had an engineer persuaded that the design was flawless and the contractor likely was not. In short, I had a puzzle with lots of pieces that didn’t match.
11
The setting sun cast long, slanted shadows across the Intracoastal Waterway as we crested the Theo Baars Bridge, a high-arched span that connected the mainland to Perdido Key. This twelve-mile-long sandspit where we had bought our condo was known as Old Gulf Beach when Baars got the county to build a road onto the key in 1924. After two efforts at constructing a resort hotel in the area died with the 1929 crash, the island languished for the next four decades. In the 1960’s, the Department of the Interior put it on the map as Perdido Key—perdido being Spanish for “lost,” as well as the name of the nearby bay that a bunch of dumb pirates got lost trying to find. Development of houses and condos got under way in the seventies, and by the end of the decade the National Park Service had bought up the eastern half of the key to save the land from further destruction by four-wheel dune buggies. The area became part of the Gulf Islands National Seashore.
Just before Perdido Key Drive swung to the right, paralleling the surf on its way to Alabama, we turned left onto Johnson Beach Road, which dead-ended at the entrance to the National Seashore. Swinging back toward the darkening waters of the Gulf, we headed for the parking lot behind Gulf Sands Condominiums. A cluster of plants with dark blue blossoms flourished among the spiky shrubs that lined one side of the road, the wiry trunks of palm trees stretching high above the other. We found less than a dozen cars nosed up to the crossties that flanked a flower bed and concrete walkway in front of our building.
Designed to Kill (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) Page 5