“That was his story. Which may or may not have been true.” I thought about what else Walt had said. “He was a young guy. I wonder if he might have lived at home?”
“Good question. How can you find out?”
We were sitting on the sofa, and I glanced across at the laptop computer on a small table next to the wall. Though Jill and I both had PCs at home, we normally didn’t stay down here long enough to make that kind of investment for Gulf Sands. So we brought the laptop along to check on investments and e-mail and do whatever else needed doing.
“One way would be to look for a phone number on Carondelet in New Orleans,” I said. “That’s where O’Keefe lived before joining New Horizons.”
I plugged a phone line into the laptop and opened the internet browser. Logging onto anywho.com, I entered the name O’Keefe, Carondelet as the street, New Orleans as the city. The search netted the name Patrick O’Keefe with an address on Carondelet and an area code 504 phone number.
Leaning toward me where she could see the screen, Jill patted my arm. “Good job. I may hire you to handle my next divorce.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said. “Does that mean I get to hide in the bushes and take photos of myself?”
I plugged the line back into the phone and dialed the New Orleans number. After a couple of rings, an answering machine picked up. “You’ve reached the O’Keefes,” the message began. When the beep sounded, I left my name and the number at the condo, with instructions to call me collect. Few people bother with that anymore, but I didn’t want to give the O’Keefes an excuse to disregard my request.
“Do you plan to wait here for the call?” Jill asked.
I gave her a smug look and shrugged. “I thought I’d leave you here to do that. I need to head for Biloxi to track down Claude Detrich.”
“At the Gulf Royale Casino?”
“Right.”
She frowned, brows knitted. “You leave here without me and your next case will be working on that divorce.”
I grinned. “Yes, ma’am. Pack us a bag. I think this calls for an overnighter.”
While Jill was packing, I got on the phone and called the pager number for my young OSI protégé Ted Kennerly. He had worked under me on his first assignment out of the Special Investigations Academy. After my retirement, we had stayed in contact with each other every month or so. Ted was stationed at Arnold Air Force Base south of Nashville. He had been a major help in my efforts to track down the people who held Jill hostage during the Arab/Israeli affair a year ago.
I had called him from Pensacola before and hoped he would recognize the phone number. He answered my page a few minutes later.
“What’s up, Boss?” he asked. He still used the term agents applied in addressing their special agent in charge.
“Thanks for getting back to me, Ted. I need a little information I thought you might dig up for me.”
I explained what I was doing in Pensacola and that I needed anything he could get me on a contractor named Claude Detrich and a developer named Evan Baucus. I told him what little I knew about them, including reports of their past in Dallas and Los Angeles.
“I thought you had decided against being a private investigator,” he said.
“I did. This is strictly a favor for Sam. If I were really into the PI business, I’d develop my own sources for background checks. I wouldn’t be calling in any markers with you.”
“Hey, you don’t need any markers with me, Boss. You know that.”
“What I meant is I don’t want to put a strain on our friendship.”
“No problem,” he said. “Anytime. How’s Jill’s arm?”
“It’s coming along. Not as fast as she’d like, I’m sure. Recently she’s been flexing her wings as assistant PI.”
“She’s what?”
I told him how helpful she had been, that she had come up with some crucial questions during my interviews.
“That lady’s something else,” Ted said. “Give her our love. We owe you a dinner when you get back.”
We often invited the Kennerlys up for one of Jill’s culinary masterpieces. Ted always praised her cooking, contending it was as good as his mother’s. A product of the mean streets of South Boston, he had the street smarts to make an excellent investigator. Ted told me he’d let me know as soon as he had something on Detrich or Baucus, and we hung up.
As I was heading for the door with our bag in hand, the phone rang.
“This is Sergeant Payne, Mr. McKenzie,” the booming voice said, as if any identification were necessary.
“Yes, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”
“Lieutenant Cassel, commander of the Big Lagoon Precinct, wants you to come in and see him.”
Neither the tone nor the words indicated this was an invitation to a friendly get-together. More like a summons to an inquisition.
“I’d be happy to come see the Lieutenant,” I said. “But at the moment we’re on our way out the door, headed for Biloxi. Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“Biloxi, huh? Well, I suppose so.” He didn’t sound overly enthusiastic about the idea. “That’s where Baucus and Detrich have their offices, right?”
“I believe that’s correct, Sergeant.”
“You’re coming back tomorrow?”
“That’s right.”
“Make sure you call as soon as you get back.”
“Scout’s honor,” I said.
I hung up the phone with a feeling that Lieutenant Cassel would not be offering congratulations for the excellent investigation I was conducting. I remembered telling Sherry Hoffman I was a private investigator and wondered if she had lodged a complaint.
Chapter 25
The drive up to I-10 took about thirty minutes, putting us on the interstate at 1:30. From there to Biloxi was right at 100 miles. Without stops, that would land us at the Gulf Royale Casino well before 3:30, leaving plenty of time to nose around Biloxi. But Jill had drunk an extra-large glass of fruit tea for lunch, which should have forewarned me of things to come.
Only the first few miles of the divided highway were in Florida. We had barely negotiated the on-ramp to I-10 when Jill looked around.
“We’d better stop at the Alabama Welcome Center,” she said. “As I recall, there’s not another rest area until Mississippi. I don’t think my tea can make it that far.”
So we stopped. And before getting under way again, I thought about my call to New Orleans. If I could locate Ollie O’Keefe before making contact with Detrich, I might stand a better chance of bluffing my way through to some useful piece of information.
I got out my cell phone and punched in the O’Keefe number. After being greeted by the answering machine, I left a new message: “This is Greg McKenzie again. I had to leave my condo, but I will keep my cell phone on.” I left the number and pressed the END button.
“Do you really think they’ll return your call?” Jill asked.
“I should certainly hope so. Wouldn’t you be curious enough to dial the number and find out what it was all about?”
“Yes. But most people aren’t like me.”
I grinned. “Thank God. I’d hate to be in love with most people.”
We cruised on down through Mobile and made another brief stop at the Mississippi Welcome Center. Then we headed for Ocean Springs, a small town famed for the pottery and paintings of the Anderson brothers, and crossed the long causeway into Biloxi. This was a scaled-down version of Vegas with grits, gumbo and gambling. We drove up to the Gulf Royale Casino at around 3:45. The hotel’s entrance was decorated in royal purple, emblazoned with colorful coats of arms, crowns and scepters. Though we had no reservation, we checked into the hotel without any problem. Wednesday was not a big day for casinos.
The room was nice, with a king-size bed, a large TV and a round table with two chairs beside the window, which overlooked Biloxi’s protected segment of the Gulf. After getting settled in, we headed back to the lobby, which served both hotel and casino.
; Judging from the woman’s remark at his office, I figured Detrich for a real gambler, meaning he would not likely show up at the casino until that evening, when the crowd was larger and the payoffs more frequent. We had some time to kill, so I suggested to Jill that we have a look at Tidewater Construction’s office. I recalled my Tallahassee source had said the company was located in the Coastal Bank Annex.
A hotel bellman gave me directions to the building, and we returned to the Jeep. We found the Coastal Bank a few blocks off Beach Boulevard in the middle of town. A three-story structure painted white and bearing an Old South look, the bank stood beside a low, brick building with Annex etched in stone above the entrance.
We found a parking place on the next street and began to stroll back toward the bank. I pulled my Titans cap on as usual to protect my thinly shielded scalp. The afternoon felt more like midsummer, the sun beaming down from a nearly cloudless sky. We had dressed accordingly. I wore a sport shirt with sailboats on it and navy slacks, which seemed appropriate for the location. Jill was dressed in tune with the regal splendor of the casino—pale lavender pants, shirt of yellow and lavender stripes. I thought we should pass for a couple of reasonably well off vacationers.
At the Coastal Bank Annex, we noted a corridor extending back from the entrance. The windows on one side were lettered Perseid Partners, while on the other side the sign read Tidewater Construction.
“Let’s have a look at the Partners,” I said.
Inside, the office resembled a real estate agency, with chairs arranged about a coffee table bearing news, architectural and boating magazines, complemented, of course, by tropical plants and framed photos of seascapes. A pert young woman with flowing brown hair and a long dress covered with red hibiscus blossoms sat at a desk in the center. Behind her I saw the entrance to a hallway lined with offices.
“Can I help you?” she asked, smiling.
I smiled back. “We’re interested in a little information on your company.”
“Were you interested in a particular project, like The Sand Castle?” She pointed to the corner of the desk, where a couple of stand-up displays were filled with brochures. “Or something more general for investors?”
“More general,” I said.
She pulled out a folder headlined “Join us and shoot for the stars...” Then I realized where I had heard of Perseid. The Partners was named for a meteor shower that provided a display of shooting stars during late summer. I took the brochure, thanked her, and Jill and I headed back out to the sidewalk. I thumbed through the folder quickly as we strolled toward the bank next door.
“What’s the deal on Perseus?” Jill asked.
“Not Perseus, Perseid.”
“The name of the meteor shower comes from the Greek god Perseus. He killed the Gorgon Medusa. Don’t you remember your Greek mythology?”
I grunted. “At this age, I do well to remember what I had for breakfast.” I held out the brochure. “Here’s our buddy.”
Beneath a photo of a smiling Evan Baucus, a brief bio listed him as a former principal in a venture capital firm and a former residential real estate developer. According to the brochure, Perseid was involved in development of several projects besides The Sand Castle. They included a shopping mall, an apartment complex and an office building, all in Mississippi or Alabama. Shares in the projects were available to investors. Architects’ renderings of the various structures were included in the colorful brochure.
When I pointed out the list of projects to Jill, she cocked her head in a questioning glance. “Do you suppose Tidewater is the contractor on the other projects?”
I looked up at the lettering over the door next to the sidewalk where we stood—Coastal Bank.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe somebody in here can tell us if they’ve bungled some other jobs.”
Chapter 26
We went inside and found a secretary with short white hair who told us the manager was in and would be happy to see us. She ushered us into a fairly spacious office with simple but tasteful furnishings. I introduced Jill and myself. Mr. Quinn invited us to be seated. He appeared late forties, a short, heavyset man dressed in gray gabardine slacks, short-sleeve white shirt, blue tie. His jacket hung on a coat tree beside the desk. With a relaxed smile, he leaned back in his plush executive chair, the one extravagance in the room.
He spoke in a slow drawl. “How can I be of service?”
“We’re a couple of retirees from Nashville, Tennessee,” I said. “I wondered what you could tell us about your next door neighbors, Perseid Partners?”
“Were you thinking about investing in one of their properties?”
“We had that in mind. But first we wanted to dig up a little more information on whom we’d be dealing with.”
“More folks should do their research that well,” Quinn said. “My congratulations.”
“So what can you tell us?”
“We handle some of Perseid’s accounts. They seem to be doing all right. There was a bit of a problem in one of their projects last weekend, though. A balcony fell at a new condo in Florida. They say it was an engineering design situation.”
“I heard about that. A couple of people were killed.”
“Yes, I’m sure it was quite a blow to them.” He swung his chair to one side, then the other.
“Does Tidewater Construction build all of their projects?”
He nodded. “To the best of my knowledge.”
“I notice their office is next door also.”
“Yes. The company is headed by a Mr. Detrich. I really don’t know much about him.” Quinn smiled. “He uses a different bank.”
I pointed to the brochure. “There didn’t seem to be anything in here about it, but I understand the Partners is a subsidiary of a corporation called Perseid, Limited.”
“That’s true. They don’t give out much information on the company. All I’ve seen are a few innocuous news releases, but I’m told it’s an international conglomerate headquartered in the Caymans. I believe the home office is in George Town.”
Interesting. I wondered if Evan Baucus was sunning himself in the Caribbean, or if he was being skewered on a tropical grill because of the accident.
“What can you tell me about the president, Mr. Baucus?” I asked.
Quinn swiveled around in his chair and leaned his arms on the desk. “He’s been on the coast for three or four years now. Was originally from out in California. Los Angeles, I believe. He’s full of big ideas. Quite a talker. I’ll have to say he’s been good for Biloxi. Patron of the arts and all, you know. Generous with the charities.”
I consulted the brochure again. “Says here he was formerly involved in a venture capital firm and was a residential real estate developer.”
“That was apparently in California, not around here.”
“Is he married?”
“About two years ago he married a local girl, Greta Teeter. She’s the daughter of Harrison County Commissioner Art Savage.”
I gave him a questioning look. “I thought you said her name was Teeter?”
“She was previously married to a local boy named Teeter. He was a cocky little cuss who wasted all his time and money racing stock cars. When he started dipping into her cash, she threw him out. Literally, I understand.”
“Sounds resourceful,” I said, grinning.
“Greta is only about thirty, half the age of Evan Baucus. Good looking girl.” His smile held a touch of wickedness. “She likes to play the dumb blonde, but I don’t believe it. Her daddy’s a smooth-talking old country boy with good connections. Some folks think she just married Baucus to improve her lot.” He gave a short chuckle. “She did that.”
I studied the picture in the brochure for a moment, then held it up for Quinn. “Looks like he has a great suntan. Is he a big golfer?”
“You’d think he was, or a tennis player. But I’ve never run into him around the courses or on the courts. Maybe he spends a lot of time in his back yard. H
e bought a nice old house on the beach highway west of town. Has some really gorgeous flowers out back. I’ve been there to some of his parties.”
A clock on the wall indicated closing time was approaching, and I figured we had taken enough of Mr. Quinn’s time. I thanked him and Jill and I headed back out to the street. She looked around, grinning.
“The Cayman Islands. Shouldn’t we pay him a visit down there?”
“Sorry, babe,” I said. “We might not make it back for your Friday therapy appointment.”
“Killjoy.” She gave me a playful punch in the ribs.
I checked my watch. Five till five. “Let’s head back to the hotel, get a bite to eat and hit the slots.”
“Now you’re talking my game.” She linked her arm in mine as we started for the Jeep.
We had just reached the hotel when my cell phone rang. A New Orleans number showed on the ID screen. I punched the TALK button and answered.
“Is this Mr. McKenzie?” a high-pitched voice asked.
“Right. Mr. O’Keefe?”
“That’s me, lad. Patrick O’Keefe. What’s so urgent? You sounded as mysterious as my parish priest.”
And Patrick O’Keefe sounded as if he could be an Irish tenor. “Thanks for returning my call. I was trying to locate Oliver O’Keefe and I wondered if you might be related?”
“Oh yes, quite related. Ollie is my son.”
“Would he be there, by chance?”
“No. I see you’re calling from Nashville. He was to have left there Sunday, but he hasn’t made his appearance here as yet. I don’t know where he could be. Dallying around, I suspect.”
“Well, I need to talk to him urgently.”
“What about?”
“I’m afraid it’s rather confidential, Mr. O’Keefe. Incidentally, I come from Nashville, but I’m presently in Mississippi. You have my cell phone number. I’d appreciate your having him call me as soon as he gets there.”
Mr. O’Keefe promised he would.
We strolled into the casino around seven o’clock. The place was lively but, with row after row of slots, there was probably room for a few hundred other players. The hum of stair-step musical notes coming from the machines, the ding-ding-ding of wins being racked up, and the clatter of coins dropping into the trays created a constant din that left Jill and me raising our voices as we walked along. Colorful neon displays touting heavy progressive jackpots topped clusters of slots. Some machines featured wheels overhead that occasionally spun around, giving a few lucky souls a fresh supply of coins, or tokens for dollar and up amounts.
Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4 Page 35