Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4

by Chester Campbell

“Are you taking that to the beach?” she asked.

  “We shouldn’t need it out there,” I said. “But who knows what we’ll find when we get back here?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re the detective.”

  I smiled and slipped the pistol under my belt in back, covering it with my shirttail. After I had put on my Titans cap, we took the elevator down to the walkway that led through the center of the building. The pool area lay in back, quiet now that the weekend visitors had departed for home. Jill and I strolled down a flight of wooden steps to the broad stretch of beach that covered a good fifty yards from the rear of the condo to the water’s edge. The breeze off the Gulf kicked up a few chill bumps on my arms, but a friendly sun warmed us as we walked along the sloping sand that washed smooth with each roll of the surf.

  We had not gone far, me with the bill of my cap pulled low to deflect the dropping sun, when we encountered a white-haired man in shorts and a yellow, slicker-type jacket standing between two fishing poles sunk into the sand. The lines were stretched taut out into the water. A plastic bucket and a small tackle box sat behind him.

  “Catching anything?” Jill asked, raising her voice to counter the sound of the wind and the surf.

  He grinned. “I’ve seen better days.”

  “Can’t ask for much better weather-wise,” I said.

  “No argument there.”

  As we walked on, detouring around him, I recalled my own brief fling as a fisherman. “Did I ever tell you about going fishing with my dad?” I asked Jill.

  She grinned. “I thought the McKenzie men were fighters, not fishers.”

  On a trip to Scotland some years back, we had visited the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders Museum at Stirling Castle, finding my grandfather in photos taken in the trenches in Europe. I had told her that was a typical McKenzie scene.

  I shrugged. “Fighters sometimes need a change of pace.”

  “Well, that’s one of your exploits we’ve never discussed. I wasn’t even aware you’d done anything around water but drink it.”

  “Come on, Jill. We’ve been out on boats.”

  “True. But I’ve never seen you dip anything into the water more than a toe or so.”

  She was right. Splashing around in a pool loaded with chlorine was a real turn-off as far as I was concerned. And I didn’t find paddling about in fresh water or salt water any more appealing. I knew how, but swimming was just one of many leisure activities I had managed to forego.

  “It was back when I was just a little character,” I said. “Not yet ten. We lived in the city, you know, but I had a buddy whose grandfather had a farm on the Missouri River west of St. Louis. He would come home after weekends at his grandpa’s telling all these tales about catching fish. I realized later it was like most fishing tales—more tale than fish—but at the time I was impressed.”

  “So you had to go, too,” Jill said, stooping to pick up a small sand dollar.

  “Right. I begged my dad to take me. I can be pretty persistent at times.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “But he was no outdoorsman. His idea of outdoor sports was watching the Cards play baseball.” I did a casual turn, a full circle, looking behind us.

  “You told me about going to the ball park.”

  “Right. Needless to say, he finally got tired of my harassment. One Friday he came home from work with a couple of poles and reels. The next morning we dug in the yard for worms, nearly filling a soup can with the slimy critters. Dad tied the poles on the car and we headed out into the country, two impersonators trying to act like real fishermen.”

  “Was this after the war?”

  “Shortly afterward. But he still drove a battered old pre-war Chevy. I wasn’t sure the thing would get us to the river and back. Anyway, a friend at work had told him about a fishing spot just off the road. We pulled up under some tall trees and carried our gear down to the riverbank.”

  “Was it summertime?”

  “End of summer. September. We sat on a rock ledge not far above the water. Dad put a worm on my hook and I dropped it in. After a few minutes, the line began to jiggle. I knew what that meant. It got me so excited I jumped up and my foot slipped. When I started to topple forward, Dad grabbed for me. He lost his balance, too, and we both fell headlong into the river. With his size, it made quite a splash.”

  Jill began to snicker. “Is that why you don’t care for swimming?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it, but you may be right. For sure I wasn’t much of a swimmer back then. He wasn’t either. But somehow we both managed to make it to the riverbank. We were still soaked when we got home and mom nearly went into cardiac arrest from laughing.”

  “Can’t blame her. And that ended your career as an angler?”

  “It did indeed.” I looked at a woman just down the beach reeling in a line that appeared to have hooked something like a water-logged old hat. I shook my head. “That was my first and last fishing trip.”

  I glanced at my watch and then at the sun, now appearing to rest almost flush with the horizon. “We’d better be getting back. It’ll be dark soon.”

  I had been doing more talking than watching and we had gone farther than I realized. By the time we reached the stairs to the ramp off the walkway, the swimming pool lights had come on, as well as lights on each floor along the end of the building. Darkness had arrived in a rush, accompanied by a definite chill in the air.

  We took the elevator to the second floor and walked quickly to our unit. Inside, I switched on the lights and closed the beachside window that was letting in an icy stream of air. Jill went into the kitchen to heat vegetable soup for supper and I sat down in front of the TV. I was about to turn on what was left of the news when I had an odd feeling that I should check my surveillance tape. Call it one of those hunches that sometimes cropped up for unexplained reasons.

  When I played the tape, I found myself staring at the picture spellbound. Even if the camera had not been designed for low light use, the building lights likely would have provided sufficient illumination. The eerily bright picture showed a tall, darkly dressed man, clearly the one from the black Cadillac, moving in behind my Jeep. He disappeared for about a minute, then straightened up and hurried off.

  Chapter 47

  Jill stood wide-eyed and watched as I replayed the tape...twice.

  “That’s definitely him,” she said, fear in her voice. “Was he planting a bomb?”

  “I don’t think so. He had nothing in his hand large enough to be a bomb. Let me go check it out.”

  “Don’t go out there, Greg.” She reached out to grab my arm. “They could still be around.”

  “I’ll look out first. See if I can spot their car.”

  “But they may be driving something different.”

  She had a point. They knew I had given the Cadillac’s license number to the cops. I reached for the phone and called the sheriff’s dispatcher. Learning that Sergeant Payne was on duty, I asked for him to call me.

  The phone rang a few minutes later.

  “What is it, Mr. McKenzie?” the deputy asked.

  “My surveillance camera out front picked up one of the men who assaulted me. He was messing around the back of my Jeep.”

  “When?”

  “Within the last thirty minutes. We had gone walking on the beach. I had the camera targeted on the Jeep, so I caught him on foot. I don’t know what kind of vehicle he was in.”

  “Could you see what he was doing?”

  “No,” I said. “And I haven’t been out to check the Jeep. I thought I’d wait until your people came.”

  “I’m on my way,” he said and hung up.

  He must not have been far away, as he arrived in less than ten minutes. I was standing outside the door and saw him pull in. When he got out of his car, I called down to him.

  “Come on up, Sergeant, and take a look at the tape.”

  Back inside, I pressed the play button on the VCR. Payne watched int
ently as the dark-clad figure approached the vehicle, looked directly at the camera, then walked behind the Jeep.

  “Looks like he’s squatting down,” I said.

  After the man came out from behind the Jeep and quickly walked away, I stopped the tape.

  “You sure got a clear shot of his face,” the sergeant said. “We ought to be able to identify him with no problem. Let’s go see if he did anything obvious.”

  I brought a flashlight along. We walked around behind the Jeep, shining the light from top to bottom. There was no sign of any tampering.

  “Let’s check underneath,” I suggested. “I’ll take a look. No need in getting your uniform dirty.”

  I lay on the gravel and scooted my head beneath the rear end. Sweeping the light back and forth, I looked around the gas tank and the muffler. Nothing. Then I moved the beam over to the frame and there it was. What appeared to be a plastic disk, likely stuck on with some sort of adhesive.

  “I found it,” I said, sliding out from under the Jeep. I pointed toward the right side. “It’s stuck to the back end of the frame. My guess is it’s a tracking beeper, so they can keep up with where I’m going. Find me when they want to.”

  “Let me get an investigator out here,” Payne said. “Maybe they left a fingerprint.”

  “Good idea.”

  The sergeant headed out on another call, and the investigator arrived some thirty minutes later. He was a slim young man named Wiggins who had curly blond hair and an easy smile. Using gloves and a knife, he removed the disk and dropped the device into an evidence bag, which he marked with the appropriate details. I showed him the video, then gave him the tape.

  “You might want to consider some alternate transportation until we get to the bottom of this,” Wiggins said.

  “Probably not a bad idea. Unfortunately, I don’t have anything else available.”

  “I’ve got a brother-in-law in the car rental business,” he said. “If you’d like, I can get him to deliver you a car in the morning. Or tonight, if you need it.”

  I thanked him. “In the morning early would be fine. We plan to attend that nine o’clock hearing on The Sand Castle accident.”

  Wiggins called his sister’s husband and explained the situation. I got on the line and arranged for him to deliver a Camry similar to Jill’s at eight a.m. The investigator said he would have the plastic device checked for fingerprints and examined by their electronics expert. He promised to let me know as soon as he learned anything.

  The alarm went off at six o’clock. That was unusual for a stay at Perdido Key, but I felt certain this would be a busy day and we needed an early start. After showering and eating breakfast, I called Ted Kennerly at Arnold AFB. The clock showed a little after seven.

  “I just called to give you my cell phone number,” I said. “We’ll probably be out most of the day. I wanted you to be able to get me in case your sources come through.”

  “One already has,” Ted said. “They’re an hour ahead of us in New York. My FBI contact called with the scoop on Perseid, Limited.”

  “Great. What did he find?”

  “The company is run by a character named Galiano who came out of New Orleans. He has close ties to the Mafia. The FBI suspects Perseid is used as a channel for money laundering.”

  “Well,” I said, “no doubt that answers one question I’ve had.” I told him about our problems with the two hoods from Louisiana.

  “If it’s okay with you, Boss, I’ll pass this on to the FBI. They may want to talk to you about it.”

  “Fine with me, Ted. I presume you haven’t heard anything yet from your man on the West Coast?”

  “No,” Ted said. “But he should be getting back to me sometime this morning.”

  I passed on the news to Jill, who listened with a studied frown.

  “Looks like you’re close to putting the final nails in Evan Baucus’s coffin,” she said.

  “Yeah. But I’ll bet he had plenty of help from Claude Detrich. Remember, we were ambushed Thursday night, while Baucus was still in the Caymans. I’d guess he had been in contact with Detrich, who told him what we were doing.”

  “Wouldn’t you also think Detrich had talked with Boz Farnsworth after your encounter with him? Boz knew exactly who you were, but you didn’t tell Detrich the whole story in Biloxi. Yet he knew everything when you talked to him Saturday.”

  “You’re right on target as usual, babe.”

  I had one more call to make. Tracking down Red Tarkington with his pager, I gave him my cell phone number and the same instructions I had given Ted. He promised to call as soon as he had something.

  Exactly at eight, Investigator Wiggins’ brother-in-law appeared at our door with the key to a Toyota Camry and paperwork for a three-day rental. As I had instructed, he parked the car in front of the building next door, walked through to the beach side and crossed the sidewalk in back to our building. He then came through to the front and took the elevator to the second floor. If anybody had been watching, they would not likely have connected the man who entered our condo with the one who parked the Camry.

  At 8:10, an associate drove up out front and the rental agent got in with him and drove away.

  Jill and I were getting ready to leave a few minutes later when Investigator Wiggins called.

  “You were right about the disk,” he said. “They could have tracked you from several miles away. We also got a good thumb print where he pressed the gadget against the frame. Sloppy work. He should have used gloves.”

  “Did you check him out on AFIS?” I asked. The Automated Fingerprint Identification System was handy within the state and maybe adjoining states. But it wasn’t universal and required querying state by state.

  “We found him, one Anthony Ferrari of New Orleans. He’s a wise guy with a rap sheet a foot long. And his mug shots match the face on your videotape. Are you willing to prosecute him for stalking and whatever other charges the DA can come up with?”

  “You can count on it. I’ll also prosecute in Orange Beach for assault and battery, if you’ll share your findings with them.”

  “The other question is, who sent him and his partner, and why?”

  “I’m ninety-five percent sure I know,” I said. “But I don’t have the proof as yet. I hope to have something before the day is over.”

  “Let me know as soon as possible. The sheriff doesn’t like the idea of mob characters operating in Escambia County. Meanwhile, we’ll be looking for Mr. Ferrari. Take care.”

  I intended to.

  Chapter 48

  I had checked the videotape earlier and nothing appeared amiss around the Jeep, but we stuck with the plan. We went out through the pool area and crossed over to the other building, then walked through to the front and got in the Camry. We arrived at the office building where the hearing was to be held shortly before nine. While looking for the room, we ran into Walt Sturdivant, who had checked in with us on arrival the night before. He was dressed in Florida casual business attire—contrasting blue pants and jacket, white shirt, no tie. The now familiar pipe stuck out of his breast pocket.

  “I have the goods here,” he said. He held up a large brown envelope from the software recovery firm, sealed, signed and dated across the seal.

  “I hope they’ll accept it and not demand to hear from somebody firsthand,” I said.

  Walt pulled out a smaller envelope. “Took care of that, too. This is a sworn, notarized statement from the guy who did the recovery.”

  He was sharper than I gave him credit for.

  We walked into the room with Walt and saw two TV cameras set up in back. Several rows of folding chairs had been arranged facing a long table. We took seats near the front. A white-haired man in a gray suit, round glasses perched on the end of his nose, sat at the table behind a stack of papers. Three younger men, one dressed casual, the others in suits, stood beside him, talking.

  “The old guy in the chair is Mr. Redding, head of the Building Inspections Depart
ment,” Walt said. “The blue suit standing is a county attorney. Brown suit is the plans examiner. The other guy is the structural engineer conducting the investigation.”

  I looked around and saw Evan Baucus seated between Claude Detrich and a suave-looking man with jet-black hair, younger than Baucus but just as nattily attired. Boz Farnsworth, I noted, sat away from his Sand Castle buddies. Beside him was an elderly man who resembled Santa Claus without the red suit. I presumed he was one of daddy’s high-powered legal advisers. I could identify several of the others in the audience as news people by the note pads they carried.

  The hearing finally got under way with a nice speech by Mr. Redding for the benefit of the media and his own political future. He expressed sympathy for the victims and their families and vowed to search out the cause of the accident and determine how it had happened. The latter translated “who was at fault,” but I suspected that would wind up being determined in court. I hadn’t volunteered my services as yet, but I hoped soon to be in a position to influence the decision.

  The investigating engineer spoke next. The most significant bit of information he provided was that the balcony showed signs of having been damaged initially by the hurricane back in July. Rains since then had aggravated the problem. However, he did not think the structure would have failed except for the inadequate materials used in its construction. As he continued to discuss his findings, my cell phone rang. I quickly punched the talk button and moved to the back of the room. It was Red Tarkington. I stepped out into the corridor as we began to talk.

  “I got your cell phone log,” Red said.

  “Great. Anything after the twelve-thirty call from the Key Hole Bar?”

  “Yep. One outbound call. And guess whose number?”

  “Mine.”

  He laughed. “Right again. The call was made at 12:42.”

  “I could hug you, my friend. You have just about nailed the coffin shut.”

  When I returned to the hearing room, Boz Farnsworth was being put into the hot seat, a folding chair placed in front of the table. His Teddy Bear lawyer sat beside him. I grinned and whispered “Red” as I took my seat beside Jill. I told her I would fill in the details when we had a break.