Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4

by Chester Campbell

  I pressed the repeat button.

  “How did he know about us?” she asked.

  “I’d guess he came by Liggett’s house while our car was parked in the driveway around noon. He checked our license number. The call was made around one-thirty.”

  “Did he think we would tell him what we knew about Kelli?”

  “I’d say that’s exactly what he thought, stupid bastard.”

  “Greg!”

  She didn’t care for my four-letter vocabulary. Seven letters, either. “Sorry, babe. But that’s the most descriptive term I have for him. Though I guess I shouldn’t talk ill of the dead.”

  “Right. But it still doesn’t tell us anything about his interest in Kelli, does it?”

  “No. Let’s check the other message.”

  This one was from TBI Agent Wayne Fought. He left a cell phone number where I could reach him.

  “What do you suppose he wants?” Jill asked.

  “Probably for us to come in for a formal statement. I’d better give him a call before Jarvis and Kelli get here.”

  Fought answered on the third ring, and I identified myself.

  “I need to come down to Bureau Headquarters in the morning. I want to see what the crime lab boys have come up with on that Jeep. I need you and your wife to meet me over there and give us a statement.”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “How about eleven o’clock?”

  “We’ll be there. Did the wound on Bradley’s head appear consistent with a blow from the walking stick in his living room?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss the investigation at this point, Mr. McKenzie.”

  “Did you find anything at Bradley’s house that looked like those Marathon Motors papers we mentioned?”

  “No, but I can’t tell you anymore.”

  “Think about it, Agent Fought. A little discussion between us might prove quite fruitful. There’s a good possibility of a tie-in with Pierce Bradley’s involvement in this case we’re working in Nashville. Cooperation could benefit us both.”

  “We’ll talk about it in the morning,” he said and hung up.

  I had just relayed his request to Jill when Jarvis and Kelli walked in wearing solemn faces.

  “Cheer up,” I said, strolling over to give the colonel a pat of encouragement. “I think Phil Adamson is going to push this thing as purely an accident.”

  “That’s not what’s borthering me,” he said. “I was against it, but Kelli insists if you’re going to be our advocate, we should level with you.”

  I frowned. “What the devil does that mean?”

  Kelli spoke up. “I’m the one who made the tackle that killed Mr. Sharkey, not Warren. He took the blame in an attempt to keep my name out of it.”

  Chapter 12

  They took chairs as I perched on the edge of my desk. “Frankly,” I said, “I wish you hadn’t told me. I may be a personal advocate, but not a legal one. There’s no client confidentiality that would stand up in a courtroom.”

  “I’m not concerned about that,” Kelli said. Her face showed the strain of an agonizing decision. “You and Jill have put forth a lot of effort on this. I want to keep everything above board. If there is anything else you’d like from me, just say the word.”

  “I think I can speak for both of us,” Jill said, leaning forward on her desk. “We really appreciate your feelings, and we’ll let you know if anything comes up where we could use your help.”

  I just hoped Phil Adamson didn’t ask me anything else about the episode on Blair Boulevard. I didn’t want to cause our clients any more problems, but I would have to answer with the truth if questioned.

  “Detective Adamson told us this Harold Sharkey character was a private investigator,” Kelli said. “Is there any way to find out who he was working for?”

  “No. That’s something Phil wanted to know, too, but he won’t likely find out.” I moved around to sit at my desk. “Are you sure this couldn’t have any connection with your work?”

  She gave me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. “The kind of people I have to deal with rely on their own resources. They don’t hire PI’s.”

  “Just thought I’d ask. Now, I hate to bring up more bad news, but you won’t be getting a visit from Pierce Bradley.”

  “Why not?” Jarvis asked.

  “Mr. Bradley is no longer with us.”

  “You mean—”

  “He’s dead,” I said with a nod.

  They looked at me in shock. Kelli recovered first. “How?”

  I told them about the Jeep in the lake, what we had learned from Pierce Bradley’s sister, our visit to Bradley’s house, and the information Sheriff Driscoll had given us concerning the former A-10 pilot.

  “Jeez. Sounds like any number of people could have wanted to do him in,” Jarvis said.

  I gave a dismissive wave of my hand. “That was my initial reaction. But there’s still the issue of the missing papers. Maybe I’m grasping at straws, but my instinct says this is all tied together somehow. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation is handling the murder case. Jill and I are meeting in the morning with Agent Wayne Fought.”

  Jarvis looked at me with renewed interest. “Will he help you look for the Marathon papers?”

  Jill spoke without a trace of humor. “I think he’d like us to fade into the sunset.”

  She was right, but I thought it best to put a little more positive spin on things for our clients’ benefit. “I hope we can convince him there’s a link in our cases. It would sure help if we had something more tangible to go on.”

  I saw Jill glance up at the clock across from her desk. “I move we adjourn this discussion to a nice restaurant across the parking lot. It’ll soon be eight o’clock.”

  “Damn.” Kelli grabbed her handbag off the floor and stood. “I promised Grandpa I’d come back over there and fill him in on what we’d learned. I’m going to omit the part about Harold Sharkey.”

  “Good idea,” I said, standing behind my desk. “Don’t forget Detective Adamson’s warning to stay out of sight if you want to avoid the media.”

  “I’ll check into the motel where Warren’s staying. You have my cell phone number if you need me.”

  “I plan to keep a low profile, too,” Jarvis said. “That’s what the duty officer I talked to advised. I haven’t been able to reach my immediate superior yet. I think I can arrange to take a few days leave when I explain the situation.”

  After they left, Jill and I were gathering up our things to head home when the phone rang. I checked the Caller ID, saw the newspaper identified and let the answering machine pick up.

  “Hey, Greg,” said Wes Knight’s voice. “I didn’t expect to find you in, but give me a call when you get this message. A reporter turned in a story about an accidental death out beyond Hillsboro Village. And guess what? That woman you asked about was identified as a witness.”

  Jill just looked at me and shook her head.

  Chapter 13

  After a full day of dashing back and forth across the countryside, alternately baking in the sun and chilling out in the air conditioned depths, Jill begged off the promised “something good” concoction for supper. We stopped at the restaurant across the parking lot and dined on their seafood special. Before getting to the main course, I had a sudden thought and called Kelli’s cell phone. She had arrived at the nursing home a few minutes earlier.

  “Just so we can rule out everything else,” I said, “how about asking your grandfather if he’s had any major disagreements in the past, something that might prompt a retaliatory trashing like you found today.”

  She hesitated a moment. “Are you suggesting it could have been a spiteful act rather than the work of untidy snoopers?”

  “Not likely, but possible.”

  “Very well. I’ll ask. If I learn anything, I’ll call you at home.”

  I snapped the phone shut and waded into a large helping of grouper with a savory sauce.

  “
Quite good,” I said, brushing my lips with a napkin. “But not nearly as good as what you’d have fixed, I’m sure.”

  Jill gave me a skeptical look. “After a day of slave-driving, you’re trying to butter me up, huh?”

  I chuckled. “I told you some days it would be like this. Then it gets worse.”

  She paused in the midst of buttering a roll. “After we wind up this case, let’s take a week or so off and go down to Perdido Key.”

  We owned a condo on the narrow neck of sand that lay just off the Gulf coast southwest of Pensacola. I hadn’t been all that thrilled about the place until our best friends sent us down there to solve a murder. That was the energizing experience that had prompted Jill to suggest, and me to accept, the idea of opening a private investigation agency. The attitude adjustment had also mellowed my view of the Florida barrier islands.

  “Sounds fine to me,” I said. “We should be due a little R&R.”

  “Rest and Recuperation.” She sighed. “I could use a bit of that when we get home.”

  “I will be at your beck and call,” I said.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  It was almost nine when we arrived at our cabin in the woods, actually a large two-story log house not far from the county line. I had installed motion-triggered floodlights that bathed the outside. On the inside, a sophisticated burglar and fire alarm system warned of intruders. We’d had a couple of nasty experiences in the not-so-distant past, so I always checked the place carefully on arrival.

  Finding everything in order, we went in and prepared to unwind.

  “You are off duty, I presume,” Jill said with mock gravity. “We have a new bottle of Riesling just dying to be opened. I’ll go up and wriggle into my nightgown, then we’ll pop the cork and indulge in a little pacification program.”

  “Yes, I’m off duty, thanks. Which means I get to watch you wriggle.” I gave her a lecherous grin.

  She waved me off. “Save the wriggling for later.”

  I started toward the room we used as a home office, calling back over my shoulder. “I believe pacification refers to peaceful submission. That’ll work.”

  I dropped my briefcase on my desk, was about to turn and walk out when the ringing phone stopped me. It was Kelli.

  “What do you have?” I asked.

  “It seems my Grandpa is a bit more of a hardass than I was aware. He told Warren and me several tales of run-ins he’d had over the years. I don’t know that any of them would result in the sort of thing that happened today, but who knows?”

  I sat on the edge of the desk. “Run-ins with who?”

  “One was the head of a medical equipment company headquartered in Nashville. Seems Grandpa nixed a multi-million-dollar deal the company had arranged with the hospital shortly before he retired. The man tried to get Grandpa fired and appears to have had him on his list ever since.”

  “And there’s more?”

  “Well, he got the Teamsters Union and the truckers association all riled up a couple of years ago when he went to the governor and state legislature complaining about some of their activities.”

  That brought a grin to my face. I admired the old guy’s spunk. He apparently thought a lot like me. He had no intention of letting anybody run over him, ignore him or push him around.

  “House trashing sounds like something the Teamsters might pursue,” I said. “But they would need some current dispute to provoke it.”

  “Probably so. That’s all I was able to come up with at the moment, though. Have you heard anything else?”

  “I hate to tell you this, but you’ll need to check the newspaper in the morning. There’ll probably be a story about the accidental death on Blair Boulevard.” I didn’t want to explain how I knew, since it was an outgrowth of my inquiry into her past.

  “We expected that. Hopefully it won’t be too detailed.”

  “I’m sure Phil Adamson did his best to keep it low key. Anyway, thanks for the information, Kelli. Let’s compare notes tomorrow after Jill and I meet with the TBI agent.”

  I hung up and found Jill standing in the doorway holding a wine bottle and two glasses.

  “I thought you were off duty,” she said.

  I walked over, took the bottle and glasses from her, set them on my desk, threw my arms around her, and gave her a monstrous kiss.

  She leaned her head back and grinned. “That was an off-duty kiss if I ever experienced one.”

  “You’re right, babe,” I said, pulling her closer. “Duty is only skin deep. We’ve got lots more pacifying to do.”

  Chapter 14

  Thursday morning’s paper carried the story of Harold Sharkey’s death, but not on page one, thank the Lord. We had been saved by major coverage of problems with TennCare, the state’s medical insurance program for the poor and uninsurable. Quotes from Homicide Detective Phillip Adamson indicated the fatal wound appeared to have been accidental, the result of a fall during a scuffle. Kelli was identified as a witness, but only as the granddaughter of Arthur Liggett. The reporter’s attempts to reach her and Col. Warren Jarvis for comment were unsuccessful. The nursing home declined to permit an interview with the retired hospital administrator, who was described as “needing rest.” According to the news story, police speculated Sharkey had gone to the Liggett home as part of an investigation, though no one had any idea what it might have involved. He appeared to have made a threatening move on Kelli Kane. The reporter came up with little background on Sharkey, except for neighbors who said he rarely socialized with anyone and came and went at all hours of the day and night.

  “You made out about as well as could be expected,” I told Jarvis when he called before we left for the office.

  “I guess so, but I’m sure the general won’t be too happy about it.”

  I laughed. “Making generals unhappy was something I excelled at. Of course, it doesn’t do your career a lot of good, as I found out.”

  Getting crossed with a B-52 wing commander fairly early in my OSI days resulted in my retirement as a lieutenant colonel, instead of achieving bird colonel status like Jarvis. The wing commander later became the Air Force Inspector General, who was overseer of the OSI.

  “Thanks for your help on this, Greg,” Jarvis said, his voice solemn. “Without you, I’m sure things would have gone a lot differently, and we would be facing a lot more trouble.”

  It was the most touching thing he had said since his arrival. I was only sorry I couldn’t have done more, particularly where Kelli was concerned. The newspaper story had gone easy on her, though. Hopefully, she hadn’t been compromised.

  “Hey, no problem,” I said. “If I had been around there, I’m sure I’d have done the same thing Kelli did.”

  “You think so?”

  “Back in my pre-Air Force days, when I was a deputy sheriff in St. Louis County, I once got in trouble for using too much physical force. Bruised a bunch of knuckles in the process, too.”

  His voice lightened up. “I’ve had a reputation for being pretty scrappy myself. But not in my early days. My dad was a stern disciplinarian and kept me on a short leash. After I left home, things changed. I learned a lot about bumping heads while playing football at the Academy.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to bump any more around here.”

  “Amen.”

  “I don’t know what it’s going to take to get to the bottom of this Marathon business, Warren, but we need to do it as soon as possible. We’ll check back with you later this morning.”

  Jill and I headed for the office a few minutes later. As soon as I finished shifting the daily trivia about, I called the Chamber of Commerce and inquired if Craig Audain had returned. No luck there.

  Jill usually answered the phone, but she was back in the supply room when it rang a little later.

  “Mr. McKenzie, this is Camilla Rottman,” said a cultured voice. “I’m with the Nashville Symphony League. Your firm is a valued part of our community, and I would like to come out and t
alk with you about becoming involved in furthering the development of Nashville’s artistic excellence.”

  “We already contribute to the symphony, Miss, uh…is it Miss Rottman?”

  “Mrs. Roger Rottman,” she corrected. “I’m aware that you’re a contributor, Mr. McKenzie, but with the new world class symphony hall going up, we need as much additional help as we can get.”

  I could hear the dollar signs ringing up like musical notes in a casino slot machine. “I think you’d better talk to my wife, Mrs. Rottman. This sounds like something in her department. Just a moment.”

  I pressed the hold button and turned to Jill, who was walking back to her desk. “You’d better talk to this lady, babe. It’s a Mrs. Rottman with the symphony, and it sounds like she’s after big bucks.”

  Jill picked up the phone. “Hello, Mrs. Rottman. This is Jill McKenzie. Some years back my mother was a first violinist with the symphony. What can I do for you?”

  Jill was the classical music enthusiast. We attended the concerts on a mix and match basis. I was more into jazz, though I liked a good rousing piece by somebody like Tchaikovsky or Mahler. She had grown up with the classics, so we settled on a mixture of classical and pops concerts. We supported the symphony and other local arts ventures, though we stayed clear of the high society crowd that ran most of them. With her dad, Daniel Parsons, a highly successful life insurance salesman, Jill would likely have ended up in their ranks if I hadn’t whisked her off to life among a different breed of jet setters. Mr. Parsons left her an extensive portfolio of investments, which she had parlayed into a tidy sum that gave us the luxury of doing pretty much whatever we wished.

  While Jill chatted with Lady Camilla, I got on the other line and called Wes Knight at the newspaper. Happily, I got his voice mail.

  “Hi, Wes,” I said. “This is Greg McKenzie. Got your message about Kelli Kane. Also saw the story this morning. Too bad about Sharkey, though it’s no great loss to the profession. I’d heard Miss Kane was in town and wondered who she was. Sorry I don’t have any more info. See you around.”