Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4

by Chester Campbell

  “Will do. Actually, his dad asked me to look into what happened. I’m a retired agent with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations.”

  “I don’t know what I can tell you, other than he was found in his car on the road over toward the boat launch. He was dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

  A flock of sea gulls flapped and squawked past us like a bunch of white-feathered rowdies having a serious disagreement. I tried to sound a bit more reasonable. “That’s the problem I’m looking into. The self-inflicted part. Tim’s parents don’t believe he would have committed suicide, and I’ve got some serious reservations. Would you mind showing us where it happened?”

  “Not at all. But I think you’ll have a real problem trying to find some other explanation for his death. The Medical Examiner ruled it suicide, and Sergeant Payne of the sheriff’s office was quite positive about it.”

  “We’ve already spoken with Deputy Payne,” Jill said, a bit tartly. “We’re well aware of his predilection toward suicide.”

  Alvarez shrugged. “Are you in your car?”

  “We walked,” I said. “We have a condo down the beach at Gulf Sands. Tim was staying at our place when he was shot.” After a pause, I added, “By whomever.”

  “It’s not far,” he said, “but I’ll drive you over.”

  He locked the nearby door to his small office, and we walked out to his car. I opened the back door for Jill, then took the seat next to the ranger. The road into the parking lot continued straight across the key to a boat launch site on the Big Lagoon, the body of water on the mainland side of the island. The road was a paved, two-lane strip bordered by weary seagrass, mostly languid shoots of brown, thick tangles of bushes and spindly but tall pine trees. As we drove along, I followed my normal instincts and inquired about the ranger’s background.

  “I joined the Park Service mainly because of my interest in the outdoors,” Alvarez said. “I’ve been a camping nut ever since Boy Scouts. As I got older, I still hiked and camped out every chance I got.”

  “Are you originally from Florida?”

  “I was born and grew up here. My parents came to the U.S. on a boat from Cuba in 1975. I studied criminology at the University of South Florida, then applied for law enforcement with the Park Service.”

  “Did you ask to be assigned here?”

  “Sure did. But after putting me through a four-month basic course, they gave me several temporary assignments around the country. When I got my permanent assignment here, I spent four months at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Brunswick, Georgia.”

  That had recently become the home of the Air Force’s Special Investigations Academy, where OSI agents were trained. It meant Alvarez had received instruction in all areas of law enforcement. He was more than just a Smokey Bear protector. Or, in this case, a Perdido Key Beach Mouse protector—I had read about the local white rodent the feds had put on the endangered species list.

  He parked at the side of the road a good hundred yards back from the large circle of asphalt where fishermen backed up trailers to launch their boats into the lagoon.

  “This is the approximate location,” Alvarez said as he stepped out onto the road. “The Blazer was sitting here when I arrived around six-fifteen. The fisherman who found him called star-five-five, and the Gulf Breeze dispatcher notified me.”

  Jill and I got out and I looked around. The area was isolated, far from any habitation. “I’m sure nobody heard the gunshot,” I said.

  “Hardly. Campers who spend the night in here have to be more than half a mile beyond the end of the road that runs down the key. That’s several miles away. The fishermen were either out in boats or fishing from the shore farther to the east.”

  I turned to the ranger. “How did Tim get his car in here in the middle of the night? Isn’t the gate locked at sundown?”

  “It is. But people with an overnight camping or fishing permit are given the lock combination in case of emergency. Also, a lot of fishermen buy a Night Owl Pass that’s good for a year. Allows them to come and go as they please. They also get the combination, which is changed monthly.”

  “Did Tim have a pass?”

  “No. I checked the list. He wasn’t on it. But anybody who knew the combination could have given it to him.”

  “Or somebody with the combination might have met him at the gate and let him in.”

  “Did Sergeant Payne tell you about the surveillance tapes?”

  I nodded. “Could you see Tim’s face in the picture?”

  “Yes. When he passed the camera he was looking straight ahead, a troubled expression on his face.”

  “Are you sure it was troubled, or maybe just stern?”

  “Good point. I really couldn’t say.”

  “Could you tell if there was anyone else in the vehicle?”

  Alvarez frowned. “The interior was pretty dark. I couldn’t detect anyone else, but I wouldn’t want to swear there was no one. The camera didn’t show anyone coming out on foot.”

  “Maybe they walked down the beach.”

  “That’s possible, but unlikely,” Alvarez said. “Incidentally, I checked all the fishermen I could find that morning, and went up and down looking for campers. I didn’t find a single person who had given out the combination or seen anyone around the gate during the night.”

  I looked at how the car was parked. “Sergeant Payne said the doors were locked. Did you open them to check and see if he was alive?”

  He walked over to the door of his car, looked down inside and pointed. “Mr. Gannon was sitting in the right-hand seat. He had fallen over to the left, across the console. I could see the entry wound toward the front of his head, on the right side, and blood on the seat. I doubted he was alive, but I got my probe out of the car and unlocked the door.”

  “Which door?”

  “The driver’s side. I figured the shot had to have come from the right. If somebody else was the shooter, they would have used the passenger side door. I wanted to protect the crime scene, if there was one.”

  Good thinking. But I wondered if there had been any follow-up.

  “The body was cold,” Alvarez continued. “The jaw and face were taut. Rigor mortis was already setting in. I notified my supervisor at Gulf Breeze, then called Sergeant Payne. I had worked with him on other cases and had his number.”

  “Did you find anything unusual around the right side of the vehicle?”

  He shook his head. “I never had a chance to check it. A group of fishermen and campers had started gathering around. I spent my time answering questions and keeping everybody away from the scene until Payne could get here. He recognized Gannon immediately and told me about the balcony falling at The Sand Castle. He didn’t have the slightest doubt that it was suicide. And he made a convincing case for it. We found the glove compartment open. Payne reasoned that Gannon had moved into the passenger seat to make it easier to get the pistol out.”

  “So Payne had no interest in looking any further.”

  “You’re probably right. An investigator from the Medical Examiner’s office arrived about that time, made some photos, checked the body and they took it away. The wrecker was here by then and hauled the car off to the sheriff’s office. And that was it.”

  I folded my arms and must have had a grim look. “So we’ll never know what might have been found in the edge of the woods over there. Like vegetation trampled by someone standing outside the car. Something that could indicate another person may have stood there and fired the shot.”

  “That’s true,” he said, hands planted on his hips, accepting the challenge. “But I have no reason to think that might have happened. Particularly after going through those videotapes. You’ll need to come up with something a lot more solid than mere speculation to convince me of it.”

  Chapter 15

  We arrived back at the condo just as Whitley was finishing work on changing our door lock. The Gulf Sands maintenance man, pool custodian and ground
s keeper was a tall, lean black man who always wore blue jeans, a colorful shirt and a Jacksonville Jaguars cap. We’d had a few lively discussions about the Jaguars’ rivalry with the Titans.

  “Here’s the new one, Mr. McKenzie,” he said, holding out a brass key. “I’ll take Marilou hers.”

  I accepted the key and smiled. “Thanks a lot, Whitley. You’re worth your weight in gold.”

  He tugged at his hat. “Must mean gold’s not worth much these days.”

  I laughed as Jill asked, “Would you like something to drink before you leave?”

  Whitley shook his head. “Thanks. I’ve got a bunch of other stuff to get done this morning.”

  We had an answering machine on the pass-through counter to the kitchen, and it was chirping like a tired cricket when we walked in. The message was from Walt, saying he would be at his motel until ten. It was still a little before that, so I sat on the sofa and gave him a call with the portable phone.

  “This shit gets deeper and deeper,” he said, punctuating his displeasure with a grunt.

  “Have you been by the building inspector’s?”

  “No. I talked to that miserable fart Farnsworth, who thinks he’s God’s gift to the ladies. First time I met him, he was in some bar chasing a skirt. Drives a red Corvette and acts like he owns the town.”

  “What did he say that’s got you so disturbed?”

  “The sonofabitch claims those rebars met the specs. He has a copy, of course, and said he’d show me.”

  “Are you going to take a look at it?”

  “You’re damned right. If that’s what it shows, somebody’s been screwing around with the plans.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “Wouldn’t it require the architect’s signature to make a change like that?”

  “The sheets dealing with the rebars were sealed by Tim as the structural engineer who drew up the specifications.”

  “Sealed?”

  “An embossed seal, like a notary uses. If anything is changed, it must be sealed like the original.”

  “It couldn’t be forged?”

  “Like I said. I guess anything is possible.”

  “Who could have done it?”

  “The logical party would be Claude Detrich, the general contractor. It would have saved him a lot of money.”

  I knew the answer to my next question, but went ahead and asked. “Any way to prove tampering?”

  “Not without our missing plans. That caper is beginning to make a little sense now. But I still don’t understand how they pulled it off.”

  “Get me the info on the guys who left and we’ll see,” I said.

  Jill was standing there with a bottle of fruit juice when I got off the phone. Orange-banana this time. “When you’re off duty, you can have a nip of scotch,” she said in a teasing voice.

  As I told her what I had learned from Walt, she dropped onto the edge of the sofa and stretched her good arm across my shoulder. I got a whiff of perfume and a generous nudge from one of those curvaceous body parts she knows how to tantalize me with.

  “If somebody down here doctored the plans,” Jill said, “that lets out Tim as the bad guy, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re right. And it would add another chapter to the mystery. If somebody here arranged the theft of those plans, they must have also erased the file in Tim’s laptop.” I reached over and grasped her right hand, squeezing those long, sensitive fingers.

  I felt a shiver ripple down her arm, and her fingers tightened on my hand. “That would mean someone was here...in our condo.”

  I nodded. “I think it’s time we started looking for SH.”

  Chapter 16

  Pensacola and Escambia County may be worse than Nashville for long streets that change names as often as crabs on the beach change their shells. The route into town was almost a straight shot once you started across the bridge to the mainland. But what began as Perdido Key Drive became Sorrento Road at the first traffic light, changed to Gulf Beach Highway a few miles later, and then to Barrancas Avenue. We crossed the high bridge over Bayou Chico and veered off to the east through the downtown business area and the historic section, where the city was settled back in the late 1600’s.

  Circling up the elevated ramp to I-110, we drove north past commercial and industrial areas to the Brent Lane exit, which took us to Pensacola’s largest shopping center, Cordova Mall. Jill and I had found the mall handy for use as a walking track once during a period of bad weather, but today we were hoping for something a bit grander, like a small miracle, or at least a lucky break.

  As it was still a good half-hour before noon and the lunchtime rush, the place was only modestly busy, though the corridors hummed with both stylishly dressed shoppers and others who appeared in various stages of undress. It’s a Florida thing.

  I had no idea where The Bodde Shoppe was located, but Jill possessed an unerring instinct for fashionable dress shops. She homed in on it like a bloodhound sniffing out a fleeing felon.

  Jill carried the red velvet jacket in a white plastic bag. I had offered her a blue one from Wal-Mart, but she let me know she wouldn’t dare come in here with something like that. Looking around at the price tags, I could understand why. A young woman in a short green dress stood near the cash register talking with an older colleague in a conservative gray suit.

  “Can I help you?” the younger one asked.

  Jill smiled and pulled the jacket from the bag. “I hope so. We had a party for a niece who went to school in Pensacola. We invited friends, and friends of friends. A lot of people came we didn’t know. Somebody left this jacket, and we have no idea who.” She opened the jacket to show the tag. “It has ‘SH’ written inside. I hoped you might know of a customer with those initials.”

  The older woman shook her head with a look of exasperation. “Sherry Hoffman. Count on her to do something like that.”

  “Sherry Hoffman?” Jill repeated.

  “I sold her the jacket. That girl is bright as a new penny. And ambitious, you wouldn’t believe. But she can be a trifle flighty at times, and...well, unorthodox. I’ll bet she wore something outrageous with that jacket.”

  “There were some outrageous outfits there,” Jill said with a laugh. She was playing the part to the hilt. “The name doesn’t ring a bell with me, though.”

  “She runs Coastal Realty. Has an office on Gulf Beach Highway. You may have seen where she wants to run for the State Senate. I’ll bet she doesn’t remember where she left that jacket. I’ll get on her case the next time she’s in here.”

  “Don’t be too hard on her,” Jill said. She stuffed the jacket back into the bag and we turned toward the door. “Thanks for the help.”

  I looked around at Jill as we headed up the corridor toward the entrance at the center of the mall. “You wouldn’t think a sales person would be so ready to gossip about a customer,” I said.

  “She’s probably the owner. And they sound like very good friends.”

  “Maybe so. Anyway, congratulations. You did a great job in there, babe. I may nominate you for an Oscar in best supporting role.”

  She feigned a pout. “I should get best actress at the very least.”

  “Sorry. You weren’t on stage long enough to qualify.” I gave her a consoling pat on the shoulder. The good shoulder. “So what do you think of Sherry Hoffman?”

  “She sounds like a gutsy lady, wants to be a state senator. Maybe a little flaky, though.”

  “I found her occupation interesting. Real estate. I wonder if she deals in beachfront condos?”

  “Do you suppose—?”

  “I don’t suppose anything at the moment,” I said. “I just know we need to learn a bit more about Miss Hoffman, then pay her a visit.”

  Out in the parking lot, Jill glanced at her watch. “My tummy as well as my timepiece is signaling we should pause for lunch.”

  I looked around and spotted a Red Lobster next to the Ninth Avenu
e exit. “This is our first shot at fresh seafood. How about it?”

  “You’re the driver,” she said.

  A short drive, to be sure. We went inside and were ushered to a booth near the back beneath a wooden sign painted with a shrimp boat. After a brief look at the menu, we both ordered stuffed flounder. It seems we invariably eat the same thing when we go out, but since that’s also what we do at home, I guess it figures. Anyway, we have similar tastes in most things.

  “I’m sure you noticed what’s across the street,” Jill said as we waited for our food.

  “The Sacred Heart Hospital.”

  “Right. I suppose I should go over and see if they have a rehab center.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “I need to go, too.”

  “To a rehab center?”

  I grinned. “Yeah. My libido needs rehabilitation.”

  “Like Elizabeth Taylor needs another husband.”

  “Just kidding. That’s where the Medical Examiner’s office is located. Remember? I asked the ranger.”

  A short time later, feeling as stuffed as the flounder, we got back in the Jeep and crossed over to the hospital parking area. Inside, the lobby had a high ceiling and a fancy chandelier. It looked almost a mini-version of one of those marble-floored political mausoleums in Washington. We stopped at the information booth and asked how to find the rehab center and the ME’s office. I suggested we save time by going our separate ways and meeting back in the lobby in thirty minutes.

  My trek took me to the depths of the building, where I followed a lengthy passageway that looked like a storage area for beds, gurneys and wheel chairs. The corridor ended at ground level in the rear of the building. Following the directions I’d been given, I stepped out the exit and found an adjacent door with a sign that said First District Medical Examiner.

  The door was locked, so I pressed the button, heard a click and opened the door. Inside was a small waiting room with a couple of chairs on each side, a potted green plant and the inevitable flamingo paintings. Not a soul in sight. On the left, a counter with a window opened onto a small office, unoccupied. An open doorway led into a room that appeared jammed with files. After I had stood there for a moment, a thin young man about my height, wearing squarish glasses like Ben Franklin, walked out of an office off the file room.