“Evan Baucus,” I said.
“Right. That was the call he got after they had gone to bed.”
“So where did he take Mr. Detrich?”
“I vote for home to bed,” Jill said. “If he was too drunk to drive or dial a phone, I hardly think he would have headed off to the National Seashore to meet Tim.”
I finished off my drink. “I’d have to agree. Which leaves Baucus out roaming around some time around one, probably alone. Did he call Tim and arrange the meeting at the Seashore?”
“If he didn’t,” Jill said, “it looks like we’re back to the possibility of suicide. Unless you think Sherry or Boz were lying about what they did that night.”
“Ready for a refill?” the bartender asked.
“Thanks,” I said. “We’re okay. Just bring the check.”
Then I thought about what Jill had just said. Though I wasn’t prepared to strike their names from the list just yet, I had not gotten the feeling that either Sherry or Boz had been lying about their movements. But something Joe the bartender had mentioned stirred another possibility in my mind.
“When we were in that unit at The Sand Castle,” I said, “I didn’t see a telephone. Did you?”
“No.”
“Logically, there would have been none, since it was just furnished as a sample. Baucus obviously uses a cell phone there. No doubt the same one I called him on. The same one Joe helped Detrich dial here that night. If we checked Baucus’s cell phone records, they would show whether he made a call to our condo early on Saturday morning.”
“How could you do that?”
“I can’t.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“With one small thread of hope, that our friend Red Tarkington can help.”
Seeing that Jill had finished her daiquiri, I leaned toward her and said, “Don’t look around, but our Cadillac buddies are seated at a table about ten feet behind us. When we get up, I’ll steer you away from them. Don’t even glance in their direction. Ready?”
She nodded. “Let’s go.”
I dropped a ten on the bar as we got up and walked across the room in the opposite direction from where I had seen the pair. My peripheral vision was good enough to assure me they were still sitting there. We turned and headed straight for the door, walked out, then practically ran across to the Jeep. Normally I would have done the gentlemanly thing and opened the door for Jill. However, this time I left her to her own devices, vaulted behind the wheel, jammed the key in the ignition and cranked the starter. Once Jill was safely in her seat, I backed out of the parking space and swerved toward the street.
As I paused for traffic, I looked in the mirror and saw the two men slam the doors of their Cadillac and knew they would be right behind us. I turned onto the highway and hit the gas. Perdido Key Drive was a two-lane road, and whenever there was a break in the oncoming traffic, I raced around the cars in front of us. The black car was still not in sight when we reached Gulf Sands.
I whipped into the parking lot and skidded to a halt in the spot covered by the video camera. I locked the Jeep and we hurried up the steps. As I pushed the door open for Jill, I glanced around and saw the Cadillac turning into the complex.
The sun had begun to sink below the horizon by now, leaving the area cloaked in the fuzzy glow of twilight. I told Jill to keep watch out the kitchen window and let me know what she saw. I grabbed the portable phone and punched in 911. When the emergency operator answered, I gave her my name and address, quickly related the situation and asked for help.
“They’re coming toward the door,” Jill said, her voice frantic.
Though I had already hung up, I kept the phone in my left hand and drew the Beretta with my right, cursing as it got stuck in the large jacket pocket. I moved into the entrance hallway as I heard a loud knock.
43
When I opened the door, the two oafs who had roughed me up stood there grinning. As I pointed the pistol, their faces sobered.
“I have the 911 operator on the line,” I said, gesturing with the portable phone. “I have given her your descriptions, your Louisiana license number and the facts regarding your harassment and your stalking. The Escambia County sheriff’s officers are on their way. If you have any doubts about my willingness to use this nine millimeter Beretta, let me tell you I’m a retired agent with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations and I have used it on lesser crooks than you.”
I lied. I had never shot anyone and really had no desire to do so now. But I would if pressed, particularly after what they had done to me Thursday night. Anyway, with no cuffs to disable them and no idea how long the sheriff’s officers would take to respond, I didn’t like the idea of trying to hold them at bay and putting Jill at risk. So I chose the most convenient ploy.
I gave them the nastiest look I could manage. “Unless you want to spend tonight in the county jail, I suggest you get the hell out of here and don’t come back. Do you have anything to say for the 911 operator’s tape?”
I held up the phone.
If glares could kill, I would have died on the spot. Instead, the pair spun on their heels and headed for the stairway. When I walked out to the rail, I saw them jump into the Cadillac and race off, tires screeching.
I closed the door and walked back into the kitchen, where I found Jill leaning against the counter, her face drained, hands trembling. I had left my Beretta on the dining room table, hoping that might lessen the tension.
She fooled me.
“Thank God you had that gun,” she said. She threw her arms around me.
I hugged her tightly. “Hey, you may qualify as a full-fledged PI after all.”
“Are they gone?” she asked, no longer shaking.
“Yeah. I debated trying to hold them for the sheriff, but I had no idea how long that might take.”
Actually, it took something over twenty minutes. Things must have been busy on a Saturday evening. We looked out the window when we heard a car pull up in front of the building. Two uniformed officers jumped out with guns drawn. I went to the door and stepped carefully outside to meet them.
“They’re long gone,” I said, my hands out, palms up. Empty.
The officer in front holstered his weapon. “Sorry. What happened?”
We sat in the living room, and I told them about our Thursday night encounter at Orange Beach, how I had videotaped the car circling through our parking lot just after noon, how they had followed us to and from the Key Hole Bar.
“You videotaped them?” The deputy, named Tolliver, was a tall, youthful looking man who seemed to be having difficulty getting a handle on just what had been going on.
“That’s right,” I said. “I bought a small surveillance camera yesterday morning and mounted it out front. The signal is relayed to our VCR hooked to the TV over there.”
“Just who are you, Mr. McKenzie, and why were these men after you?” the other officer asked. He was a black deputy named Jenkins, short and stout with graying hair, obviously senior in age and service to Tolliver.
I told him my story and explained that I had mentioned the Orange Beach affair to Lieutenant Cassel and Sergeant Payne. That brought a quick eye shift as the deputies exchanged glances.
“My story ring a bell?”
Jenkins nodded slowly. “We heard a little about your case, Mr. McKenzie. You say you confronted these men with a pistol. Can I see your permit, please?”
Here I was complaining about being harassed and they wanted to see my gun permit. I fished around in my billfold and handed him the card. “I understand Florida gives reciprocity to Tennessee permits.”
He studied the card for a moment and handed it back. He looked across at Jill. “Were you with him when all this happened?”
“I was. It happened exactly as he said.” She looked around at me. “Except he didn’t mention what I told him Thursday night.”
“What’s that?” Jenkins asked.
“When he wouldn’t take the time t
o report what happened to the Orange Beach police, I told him he was the hardest-headed man I’d ever known.”
I gave them a sheepish grin.
The deputy returned his pen and pad to his shirt pocket and stood. “We’ll report this to Lieutenant Cassel and see how he wants to handle it.”
I didn’t like the sound of that and said as much to Jill when they had left.
“What do you think he’ll do?” she asked.
“I hesitate to speculate. Probably repeat what he told me yesterday—it would never have happened if I had kept my nose out of other people’s business. He’d be right, of course.”
She shook her head. “Do you still think Detrich sent them?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sure our buddy Detrich is into this much deeper than he’ll admit. And I strongly suspect Boz Farnsworth knows a lot more about what’s going on than he’s willing to say. I just wish I had enough leverage to pry more out of him.”
44
Sunday morning was clear, crisp and cool. We headed for the 8:30 service at Lost Bay Church, observing nothing along the way that might signal a return of Saturday evening’s problems. No black Caddy, no Sicilian-looking enforcers. I left my Beretta under the driver’s seat in the Jeep. I didn’t feel comfortable carrying a gun into the church. Anyway, I thought the odds were slight that my assailants would frequent such a place, and there were always greeters and other folks around the cars.
The church had cushioned seats rather than pews, which my bruised side seemed to appreciate since I felt no pain during Brother Charlie’s sermon. His subject appeared to have been chosen just for us, a point Jill whispered in my ear as the preacher began to discuss “Revealing the Mysteries of Life.” He used passages in Mark’s Gospel and Paul’s Letter to the Corinthians as his text and talked about how God chose to reveal the mysteries of life according to when we were ready for them.
We spoke to Charlie after the service and his first comment, as expected, was, “What happened to your face? Did you do that, Jill?”
“Don’t blame it on me,” she said. “I’ll let Greg explain.”
“I had a close encounter with the wrong kind,” I said. “I’ll tell you about it later. What I wanted to ask was if you had us in mind when you chose your sermon topic for today?”
He laughed. “Actually, I came up with the idea several weeks ago. But I’ll confess when I was putting the final touches on it during the week, I did think about you two. I presume everything hasn’t been revealed as yet?”
“You presume correctly,” I said. “We’ve narrowed the scope of the mystery pretty well, but God evidently doesn’t think we’re quite ready for the final revelation.”
He gave us a cherubic grin. “Well, I hope my meager efforts were of some help.”
“They were. Hopefully it will all come together in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
As we were walking out to the parking lot, we encountered J.W. Payne on his way in. He was dressed conservatively in a dark suit, white shirt and striped tie. He stopped a few feet away.
“I hear you called us for help yesterday afternoon,” he said, his face solemn.
“That’s correct, Sergeant. Deputy Jenkins said he would report to the Lieutenant and see how he wanted to follow up. Is anything being done?”
“We’re looking for the car, but nothing has turned up. It was a rental car out of New Orleans.”
“I’m aware of that,” I said. “A friend with NCIS told me the rental company was owned by the mob. He said their soldiers used the cars. Maybe Lieutenant Cassel was right when he suggested my attackers were Mafia.”
Payne frowned. “Who would have sent them?”
“That’s what I’d like to know but haven’t figured out yet. What else does the Sheriff’s Office plan to do?”
“Don’t know there’s anything else we can do, unless you can give us some idea who would have sent them and why.”
I shrugged. “The why seems pretty obvious. Somebody thinks I’ve learned too much. If I can find out anything about who, I’ll let you know.”
“Do you think you’re still in danger, Mr. McKenzie?” His face was calm and unreadable.
“I certainly hope not.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to say as he walked past us into the church.
45
“It sounds like you aren’t sure whether those people might still be lurking around somewhere,” Jill said as we got to the Jeep.
“We can’t be certain, but the fact the police haven’t turned up the car leads me to believe those two guys have gone back to New Orleans.”
“But two other guys, or those two in a different car, could be back.”
I held the door open for her. “Let’s not worry about it for now. We’ll go back to the condo, read the Sunday paper, then head for the Bayside Grill.”
———
The restaurant was located on a spit of land that jutted out from Orange Beach into a part of Perdido Bay called Bayou St. John. Housed in a low wooden building, the Bayside Grill sat opposite a large structure that included dry dock facilities for boat repair. The Bayside had a Sunday brunch that we delighted in if for no other reason than the basket of bread they brought to get you started. In the mix were such goodies as orange, banana nut and chocolate muffins. We arrived just after eleven to beat the crowd and were seated on the wooden porch facing a marina filled with boats of all sizes.
The day was still a tad on the cool side, but the hot coffee they served with the muffins kept us comfortable. We decided to be different and ordered the banana-stuffed French toast for our entree. While waiting, we talked about where the investigation stood and what might lie ahead.
“Maybe I should do my thing with Greta Baucus like I did with Sherry,” Jill said.
“I don’t know what help she could give us other than what she’s already done. That inadvertent tip about the phone call her husband made is the best lead we’ve got at the moment.”
“Have you thought of any way you might get something more out of Boz?”
I finished off a muffin and shook my head. “We’ll go to that hearing in the morning and hope something turns up there. I imagine Walt will be coming down tonight.”
———
We drove onto the Navy base shortly before two. Security had been reinforced since the new date of infamy, September 11, 2001. We had to navigate a maze of large concrete barriers to reach the small gatehouse, where we picked up a visitor pass. The road curved around a storage area for private boats and a drive leading to the lighthouse on the lagoon side, then past the entrance to operations buildings for Sherman Field. Shortly, a large white structure came into view with an F-18 Hornet mounted at a rakish angle in front, the Museum of Naval Aviation. The parking area was crowded on a bright Sunday afternoon. We parked and walked toward the building.
The flight line tour bus, a gaudily painted trolley, sat under the canopy in front of the doorway. The grizzled retired pilot who served as driver roamed nearby, recruiting passengers for the free ride. We waved him off, having already taken the drive on more than one occasion. The route circled past rows of restored vintage military aircraft parked on the tarmac. We walked into the high-ceilinged, open lobby, past the information counter staffed with more retirees, and the IMAX theater ticket office and entered the museum. Off to the right of the colorful aircraft displays was the entrance to the Cubi Bar and Cafe.
Inside stood the bar that had served countless sailors during its heyday at the air station that was part of the giant Subic Bay naval base, long since returned to the Philippine government. The tables listed various aviation squadrons that had flown in the area. Plaques contained the names of aircrews, and Vietnam War mementos were everywhere, including countless photographs of flight-suited pilots.
Beyond the bar area, other tables were available for patrons desiring to order meals. That was where we found Red Tarkington waiting for us with a Bud bottle in hand. He was about my height b
ut slimmer, short red hair, a handsome boyish face. I took him to be mid-forties. He stood as we approached.
“Guess I should salute, Colonel,” he said with a grin. “Didn’t know I was in such august company when we were over at Pearl. Ted told me you came from a long line of military men.”
It was true. When the 98th Argyllshire Highlanders were first mustered in 1794 at Stirling Castle, north of Glasgow, there were sixteen McKenzies on the roster, one of them an ancestor of mine. After the unit was re-designated the 91st, other McKenzies followed him on down to 1881 when the 91st was merged with the 93rd Sutherland Highlanders to form the regiment my grandfather fought with in the Boer War and World War I. My dad, Rob McKenzie, was a little less combative, serving as a U.S. Army cook in World War II.
“Good to see you again, Red,” I said. “Meet my wife Jill.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” His grin faded as he studied my face. “That thanks to your New Orleans admirers?”
I nodded as we sat down. “They paid a return visit last night. This time I greeted them with Beretta in hand.”
“Good for you, Greg. Bet they beat a hasty retreat.”
“They did. But I’m still not sure who they were or who sent them.”
I filled him in on the investigation as Jill sipped on a soft drink and I had a beer. Like me, Red had a police background, spending a few years with the Louisville, Kentucky PD. He had received several commendations for his work in the Navy.
“I was involved in a little excitement over at Perdido Key one evening not long ago,” Red said.
“What happened?”
“I was coming out of a restaurant along the Intracoastal Waterway when a small motorboat that had just tied up caught fire. A young couple was on board, and the guy slipped while helping his wife onto the pier. I saw him hit his head and fall into the water.”
Jill cringed. “That’s awful.”
“Fortunately I was wearing shorts,” Red said. “I kicked off my shoes and dove in. I did lifeguard duty in my younger days, and I managed to get him out without too much hassle. Turned out he was a young lieutenant from the base.”
Designed to Kill (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) Page 20