Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4

by Chester Campbell

  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 to 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.”

  Chapter 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.

  Chapter 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 befo
re 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 but 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.”

  “I knew you were a good man to have around,” I said. “Wish you’d been over at Orange Beach Thursday night.”

  “Sorry I wasn’t. You figure this developer’s the perp now, huh?”

  “Right. And I’m wondering if you might be able to help us on that score. I need his cell phone log for early last Saturday morning.”

  Red frowned. “Wouldn’t be any problem if it was a Navy case, of course. But I’ve developed some good telephone contacts. Depending on the company, I might be able to get hold of what you need.”

  I handed him a business card that contained my name, P.O. Box and retired. I had written Baucus’ cell phone number on the back. “I don’t know the company, but I’m sure you can find out from the number.”

  “Yeah. No problem there. I’ll do some calling around and see what I can learn in the morning. How’s my buddy Kennerly?”

  “I hope he’s staying out of trouble,” I said with a laugh. “If I’d leave him alone, he probably would.”

  He looked at Jill, then back at me. “He told me what he helped you do on that scroll business. I’m glad everything worked out okay.”

  I patted Jill’s hand. “She got the worst of it. Recently had rotator cuff surgery because of a fall over there the night it ended. The Zalman guy you mentioned and his buddy Lipkowitz gave us the most trouble. Except, of course, for the character called Moriah. But he got it in the end.”

  Red smiled. “Well, you’ll be happy to know Zalman and Lipkowitz are both current residents at an Israeli prison. We nailed them and their sailor friends for trafficking in stolen government property.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That makes my day.”

  Jill nodded at me. “Now if we can find a way to pin down Mr. Baucus tomorrow, you’ll be on Cloud Nine.”

  That was not the position I found myself in when we arrived at Gulf Sands an hour later.

  Chapter 46

  When I pulled in, the spot where I usually parked was occupied by a large white pickup with Tidewater Construction painted on the door. The window had been lowered and I could see the large and somber face of Claude Detrich peering out. I had no idea why he was here, but I had a solid hunch his interest wasn’t in furthering my career as a PI without portfolio.

  I parked two spaces down and saw the truck door swing open as Jill and I alighted from the Jeep. Detrich confronted me immediately with his fists planted against the oversize waist of his blue jeans. He wore a short-sleeve yellow shirt that revealed a diamond-studded gold Rolex on his left wrist. If he was trying to impress me, he had. His black hair was hidden mostly by a white Saints cap.

  “I hear you’ve been asking questions about me down at the Key Hole,” he said in a loud voice. “What the hell for?”

  I drew back slightly as his alcoholic breath hit me. “You didn’t seem interested in telling us where you went when you left there on Friday night,” I said. “So I asked the bartender.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That you called Baucus and he came after you. Where did he take you?”

  He snorted. “To my damned apartment, if you must know.”

  “What did Baucus do then?”

  “How the hell do I know? I guess he went back home and climbed in bed with that bitchy blonde wife. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I just might do that,” I said.

  Bitchy blonde, I noted. Evidently Detrich and Greta were not big buddies.

  “I told you yesterday to stay out of my way,” he said. “I meant stay the hell out of my life. I’ve had enough of your damned nosiness. You know what can happen to people who do that?”

  I’d about had enough of Claude Detrich. He probably hadn’t killed Tim Gannon, but I was certain his reckless use of substandard materials had killed two people at The Sand Castle. I stared him in the eye, my blood pressure rising.

  “I’m well aware of what can happen,” I said. “Do you know a couple of guys from New Orleans, both stocky build, one about my height, bushy black hair, gray-streaked, heavy brows, the other shorter and bald-headed?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about two guys in a re
nted car from Bayou Rentals, a mob business. They did this to my face Thursday night at Orange Beach. The same two came back here last night and I had to run them off with this.” I opened my jacket a little to reveal the holstered Beretta. Just enough for Detrich alone to see. I don’t care to advertise when I’m carrying a weapon.

  Detrich’s eyes widened. “I don’t know nothing about it.”

  Without another word, I grasped Jill’s arm and led her toward the stairway. As we walked up, I heard Detrich start his truck and head out of the parking lot, engine roaring like an Indy race car.

  “Do you think that was wise?” she asked in a calm voice.

  I was beginning to calm down also. “Maybe wise, but not smart.”

  “Or smart, not wise, my dear.”

  Then I thought of something and stopped her on the stairs. “Wait right here. I think I’ll move my Jeep back to where the camera is aimed.”

  The clock on the living room wall showed 4:15 when we got inside. I had turned it back last night to mark the end of Daylight Savings Time. Dusk would come an hour earlier today. Jill walked out onto the balcony, leaned against the railing and looked down at the beach and the rolling surf. I joined her as the late afternoon sun glistened on the white sand. Aside from a couple strolling in the far distance, we saw only two women in bathing suits sitting in folding beach chairs not far beyond the Gulf Sands fence. Three small youngsters romped around them, alternately chasing gulls and each other.

  “Do you realize we haven’t been walking since Tuesday?” Jill asked.

  “Really? I hadn’t thought about it, but I guess you’re right.”

  “How’s your ailing side? Are you up to a stroll on the beach?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Despite the cool breeze, we changed into shorts and slipped on our rubber sandals with Velcro straps, which we preferred to padding through the sand barefoot. When we were ready to head out, Jill saw me eye the Beretta lying on the table.