Designed to Kill (Greg McKenzie Mysteries)

by Chester D. Campbell

  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.”

  ———

  We got back to Gulf Sands around seven o’clock and found a message from Walt Sturdivant on the answering machine. He advised in that staccato delivery of his:

  “I got a call late this afternoon from Pensacola. The building inspector has retained a structural engineering firm. Their job is to investigate the balcony collapse. Everyone connected with the project is to be there for a hearing Monday at nine. I thought you’d like to know.”

  33

  The hot shower helped soothe my aching side but only irritated the tender, scraped spots on my face. My cheek felt like it had been caught in the midst of a cat fight. After carefully slipping on my pajamas I eased onto the sofa, where Jill brought me a tray with a bowl of vegetable soup, a slice of toasted five-cheese French bread and a cup of coffee. She sat and watched as I began to eat.

  “Where’s yours?” I asked.

  “I lost my appetite at Orange Beach.”

  “You aren’t eating anything?”

  “I nibbled on some crackers. I’ll get a cup of coffee in a minute.”

  I tried a smile but it made my face hurt. “You’ve got to keep your strength up if you’re going to look after me, babe.”

  “That’s becoming a bigger job than I had counted on.” Then she tapped a finger against her chin. “Do you remember what you promised to do tonight?”

  “What?”

  “Call Sam.”

  As soon as I finished eating, I made good on my promise. I gave Sam an abbreviated version of what had happened so far in the investigation, leaving out a few thorny details. like my run-in with Lieutenant Cassel and the encounter with the boys from Louisiana.

  “So Tim definite
ly wasn’t responsible for that accident,” Sam said, his voice upbeat.

  “That’s right. And he told somebody that night he didn’t feel any responsibility for it.”

  “That knocks out the suicide motive, doesn’t it. Who told you that?”

  I caught myself before replying. It didn’t seem advisable to bring Sherry Hoffman into the picture. “I don’t recall offhand. It’s in my notes.”

  “But you’re sure they didn’t build the balcony the way Tim designed it?”

  “I’m sure.” Again because of what Tim had said to Sherry. “But I don’t have anything yet to conclusively prove it.”

  “I have a feeling you’ll find it. I’ve got confidence in you.”

  The feeling I had at the moment was closer to weariness than confidence. “We’re giving it our best shot, Sam.”

  “It sounds like any of those three guys could have killed him, if they were all out running around late that night.”

  “That’s true. We’ll try to dig a little deeper tomorrow into what each of them was doing.”

  “What’s behind this, Greg? Is it money?”

  “Probably.”

  “Damn! How do you put a price on a man’s life? A father of three boys?”

  “You can’t, Sam.”

  “Find him.”

  “I will.”

  I punched off the phone and sat there. My head hurt. My side hurt. I hurt in places I couldn’t touch. I hurt for Sam.

  “What happened?” Jill asked. “You look worse than you did on the pavement in Orange Beach, if that’s possible.”

  “Sam doesn’t understand how somebody could murder his son.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’ve got some good ideas. They don’t make sense to a rational person, but rational people don’t commit murders.”

  “You told Sam ‘I will.’ I will what?”

  “Find the guy who killed Tim.”

  She moved over to sit beside me and gripped my hand. “I don’t like the way this is going, Greg. You could have been killed tonight. Don’t you think it’s time to turn this over to Sergeant Payne?”

  “Turn over what? I don’t think the sergeant or his boss would be impressed with my speculations.”

  She shook her head with a sigh. “I might have known. You won’t let go of this until you solve it or it kills you.”

  True. I hoped it wouldn’t be the latter, but if I went charging blindly into another ambush, it might be my last.

  34

  I woke up Friday morning on my right side. The pain pills I had taken before going to bed had long since fizzled out. The pain persisted in the left side of both my body and my face. I felt Jill pressed against my back, her arm lying across my hip. Since the surgery, she moved her left arm frequently at night, searching for a comfortable position. Had her hand brushed against the tender spot where I had been kicked, causing me to awaken? I glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly seven.

  We were not early risers, unless we had something special on our agenda. Normally, the first to awaken would turn over and the other would roll in tandem. Seen by a fly on the ceiling, we probably looked like a pair of porpoises performing at a sea life show. Then we’d play a little game with the clock, saying ten more minutes, five more minutes, one more minute. Jill was fine after she got up, but her resistance to making that first move seemed to grow with age. I didn’t push her since I loved to feel the warmth of her body against mine. Occasionally, the rubbing and patting would lead to other things, but we won’t go into that now. Certainly not this morning.

  I didn’t even feel up to turning over. But I soon realized I would be better off vertical than prone. Slowly, I pushed myself up and sat on the side of the bed.

  “Are you okay?” Jill asked. She elbowed herself up from the pillow.

  I looked around and groaned. “About as okay as a surfer who just got tossed headfirst onto the beach by a twelve-foot breaker.”

  She sat up and leaned against the headboard. “And you, a career law enforcement professional, a tenacious advocate of law and order, have no intention of reporting what happened to you?”

  “If I thought it would help anything, if I thought the cops in Orange Beach would have a chance of catching those characters, I would gladly report it. But the answer to both is no. So what’s the use?”

  “I can’t believe you don’t intend to do anything about it.”

  I finally managed a halfhearted grin. “And you’d be right, babe. For one thing, I’ll definitely be keeping an eye out for them. And I’ll be carrying my Beretta from now on. But I also have another little trick in mind.”

  A hot shower eased the pain and put me in a mood to resume the hunt. I didn’t know whose business I had been butting into, but I was determined to keep butting until I found out.

  The morning was cool, the sun nowhere in sight, a solid deck of rippled white clouds stretching out over the water. Some sort of front must have come through overnight, putting the mercury in a skid. After checking out the balcony, we decided to stay inside for breakfast. The tasty aroma of bacon and eggs shifted the old appetite into high gear and we talked about the investigation as we ate.

  “Did anything I got from Sherry yesterday ring any new bells?” Jill asked.

  “For one thing, we know your hunch was right about Boz being jealous of Tim. Sherry had been playing Boz along until Friday night, when she ditched him. I’ll bet he knew it was because of Tim. I’d love to know what time he left that bar and where he went.”

  “Think he would talk to you again?”

  “Not a chance. He probably wouldn’t even give me one of his worn-out tennis balls. Sure wish I had Sergeant Payne’s authority. I’d call Boz in and grill him.”

  “Could you talk Payne into that?”

  “Yeah, about as easily as I could talk him into swapping jobs with a pizza deliveryman. I’ll just have to find another way to get the information. Remember, the time he left the bar was the question that set Detrich off the other night at the casino.”

  “Do you think Boz and Detrich could have been working together on that scheme to save money on the steel and concrete?”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “Boz should have realized the materials weren’t strong enough to do the job. He obviously raised no objection. I imagine he and Detrich and Baucus will all be on the hot seat at that hearing Monday.”

  We were finishing our final cup of coffee when the phone rang. I picked it up off the table. When I saw the ID, I handed the phone to Jill.

  “Maybe you’d better take this one,” I said.

  The caller was Sherry Hoffman.

  35

  Jill answered the phone, listened for a bit, then said, “Sure. We’d be happy to talk to you anywhere. Where would you like to meet?”

  When she ended the call, Jill had a look of concern on her face. “Something’s happened. Sherry wants to talk to us again, but not where we’d be recognized. She wants us to go to a little souvenir shop down the beach called The Shell Game at ten o’clock. It’s run by a friend of hers. She’ll park in back and meet us inside.”

  “She didn’t say what it was about?”

  Jill shook her head. “Just that it was important. And she wanted you there, too.”

  We had just enough time to make a quick run into the edge of Pensacola before meeting Sherry. I was thankful for the change in the weather, which allowed me to hide my Beretta beneath a jacket. Our destination was a small electronics shop called Chief’s House of Security. I had wandered into the place out of curiosity on a previous trip. The proprietor was a big, muscular, totally bald ex-Navy SEAL known as Chief Vester. He specialized in what he called spy stuff.

  “Hey, Colonel,” he greeted me. “Haven’t seen you since before the big blow.”

  I was surprised he remembered me. “Afraid we haven’t been down for a while, Chief. You remember my wife, Jill?”

  He tipped his black baseball cap and grinned. “Nice to see you, ma’am. What c
an I do for you folks this morning?”

  “I need one of your little video cameras to mount outside unobtrusively,” I said.

  “Wired or remote?”

  “Remote,” I said. “How about motion activated?

  “No problem. You gonna hook it to a VCR?”

  “Right. Completely unattended.”

  He laid all the components on the counter and showed me how to hook up the system. In no more than fifteen minutes, we were on our way back to Gulf Sands. Handyman that I am, I quickly mounted the camera on a post overlooking the parking area, aimed to catch anyone entering or leaving. I plugged the small receiver with its mini-antenna into the VCR connected to the TV in the living room.

  ———

  We drove up to the small shop shortly before ten. The building was located on the opposite side of Perdido Key Drive from the beach, the exterior painted in typical Florida flamingo pink, blue shutters and awnings. Huge conch shells decorated the windows. But the shells turned out to be mostly window dressing. Inside, racks of T-shirts and tables piled with the usual array of souvenirs featuring palm trees, coconuts, pelicans, oranges—you name it—cluttered the large rectangular room.

  We saw only two other customers in the place, a grossly overweight woman who didn’t need to be in shorts, and her teenage daughter, whose mismatched outfit included a bulky jacket and a bikini that hardly appeared legal. The woman behind the counter looked late thirties and wore a bright cotton dress with frilly sleeves.

  “Anything I can help you with?” she asked, smiling.

  “We’re meeting Sherry Hoffman here,” Jill said.

  “Oh, sure. She’ll be right along. You can wait in my office.”

  She opened a door to the back, and we entered a small room with a table for a desk. An assortment of junk gave the office the same cluttered appearance as the shop. Pictures on the wall looked similar to the beach scenes for sale out front. Jill and I sat in a couple of canvas chairs beside the table and waited.