Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4

by Chester Campbell

  “What big bust?” Jill asked.

  “One that’s on the TV.” She pointed to a monitor mounted on a shelf above the check-out counter. It presently showed a stylish A frame house nestled in a rural setting. “The high sheriff was just on. He told about finding a cave beneath that house where they was growing marijuana. Hundreds of plants. Biggest bust ever in Tennessee.”

  “That should’ve made him happy,” I said.

  “Oh, he was grinnin’ all right. Y’all can take that table over there.”

  As we headed over by the front window, my cell phone rang.

  “What the hell have you done now, McKenzie?” Sheriff Driscoll asked.

  “I just did my civic duty, Sheriff. We went to visit Mickey Evans and found her on the living room floor with her head bashed in. I called the local authorities as I was honor-bound to do.”

  He let out a noisy breath. “Well, I’m getting a little tired of all this messy mayhem. That stuff didn’t happen around here until you showed up. I may have to put out an order to stop you at the county line in the future.”

  “I trust you’re only joking,” I said.

  “Mostly. But it is beginning to jar my nerves.”

  I decided a new tack was in order. “Congratulations on the big marijuana catch, Sheriff. I just heard about it.”

  His voice mellowed. “Yeah, that was nice. Our multi-county Drug Task Force has been working on it for nearly five years. We finally got the bastards. You wouldn’t believe what they were doing in there.”

  “It was a cave?”

  “They built the house on top of it. Nobody lived there. They had a passage leading underground where they had the most sophisticated operation you ever saw. Lights and climate control. They could raise a crop in two months that would take four-and-a-half on the outside.”

  “Make any arrests?”

  “Yeah. We got the three dudes that ran it.” He was silent for a moment. “The TBI crew is about ready to wrap it up over here. I don’t imagine they’ll be all that happy about it, but it looks like they’ll have to set up again in Hartsville. I’d better get with Wayne and tell him what’s happened. That Evans woman was Casey Olson’s girlfriend.”

  I looked out at the rain that continued its steady drum beat on the window. “Right. My guess is the same guy got her that killed Casey.”

  “Maybe so. Where are you?”

  “We’re at Big Mama’s. Just sat down.”

  “Enjoy your meal, and stick around. We may need to talk again.”

  Big Mama came over when she saw I was off the phone. “What can I get you folks?”

  “It’s a little early for supper,” I said. “Just bring me a cup of decaf.”

  “Make it two,” Jill said. “No cream for either of us.”

  After Big Mama left to get our coffee, Jill put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on folded hands, her eyes fixed on me. “What do you want to ask her?”

  “Anything she can tell us about Mickey over the last forty-eight hours.”

  When the oversize proprietress brought our cups a few minutes later, I asked if she’d like to sit down, that I had some bad news for her.

  With the help of a little huffing and puffing, she lowered herself onto the chair across from me. “What’s going on?”

  “We just came from Mickey Evans’ house. I’m afraid she’s met with some terribly foul play.”

  The heavy jowls sagged as her face took on a look of dismay. “I don’t understand. You mean—” She stopped as she saw tears well in Jill’s eyes. “No ...no ...what happened?”

  I reached across and took her large hand in mine. “I’m sorry, but she’s dead. We found her at her house a little while ago.”

  She began to whimper. “I knew it. I knew that girl would come to a bad end. I tried to help her.”

  “You did help her,” Jill said. “She told me you put her to work when everything was falling apart. Some terrible person killed her. We hope you can help us get some idea of who did it.”

  “We need you to think really hard and tell us everything you remember about what she did from the time she came to work Saturday,” I said.

  A small waitress with a slight limp brought Big Mama a glass of water. After a few minutes, she calmed down enough to begin her reminiscing. I sipped my coffee as she recalled the past two days.

  Mickey had come to work as scheduled at three on Saturday afternoon. It was a routine evening.

  “The only unusual thing I remember is her talking a lot to a red-headed woman who was a newspaper reporter from out of town. I had to get onto her about taking care of her other customers, but she said the woman kept asking questions.”

  “What kind of questions?” I asked.

  “Mostly about Casey Olson’s murder. Pierce Bradley, too. Said she was writing stories on the case for a paper up north.”

  Just what Mickey had told Jill on the phone. Big Mama said Mickey left when the café closed at nine. On Sunday, Mickey came to work at eleven a.m.

  “Anything particular you recall about that shift?” Jill asked.

  “That newspaper woman came back late in the afternoon. She cornered Mickey again, looking real intense, asked a couple of questions and left.”

  “Did Mickey say what she was after?”

  Big Mama screwed up her face, thinking. “Something about Casey’s boss at Samran. I think she wanted to know where he hung out.”

  “Did Mickey know?”

  “She told her some place she knew about, but I don’t know where it was.”

  I pushed my coffee cup aside. “Do you recall anything else?”

  She shrugged her large shoulders, like a buffalo getting ready to move on. “I don’t think so. She left around seven that evening. That’s the last I saw of her. Oh, God, I can’t believe this.”

  She pulled a napkin from around a set of utensils, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Getting up from the table, she excused herself, said she needed to go to the kitchen.

  That’s when my cell phone rang. I made a mental note to put it on the charger when we got back in the car.

  “This is Patricia Cook, Mr. McKenzie. We just got back from Lebanon, and I found your note in the door.”

  “Thank you for calling,” I said. “I wondered when it might be convenient for my wife Jill and I to come over and talk with you for a few minutes?”

  “Where are you?”

  “We’re in Hartsville at Big Mama’s restaurant.”

  “That woman,” she said with a chuckle. “If you’d like to come over now it would be fine. I think I have something you’re looking for.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “What is it?”

  “Some papers from Marathon Motor Works.”

  Chapter 38

  Patricia Cook and her daughter, Marcie, met us at the door. Mrs. Cook’s face had gained a bit more color since we’d seen her at the funeral, but her hair still resembled what my mother called a rag mop. She gave us a polite smile, though, and invited us in.

  I shook my little collapsible umbrella. “We’ll just leave these out here.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “Give them to me. I’ll just set them here in the foyer. It won’t hurt anything.”

  The foyer was floored with tile. The living room had a large stone fireplace that reminded me of our own in Hermitage. We sat on a brocade sofa with a floral design while Mrs. Cook took a chair across from us. She lifted a black leather case that sat beside it. I recognized the type used by Air Force pilots to stow maps and charts, radio frequencies and the like.

  “This was Pierce’s,” she said. “He carried his important papers in it. I told you about the argument we had the afternoon before he ...before he disappeared.”

  “Yes, I recall,” I said when she hesitated, swallowing hard.

  “He left in such a rush I didn’t notice if he had it or not.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  She looked across the room with a meek, tentative smile. “Behind th
at chair over there, where he had sat. I should have seen it, but I hadn’t gone around that way, I guess. Then, after the sheriff came by, I was so upset I wasn’t fit to look for anything.”

  “Did you just find it tonight?” Jill asked.

  She nodded. “We spent a couple of days with my brother-in-law. They helped get my emotions back under control. When I read your note, I went right to it.” She opened the case, pulled out a large brown envelope and held it out to me. “I believe this is what you’ve been looking for.”

  I got up and took the envelope, which had “Liggett” printed in large letters on the front. As I returned to sit by Jill, I opened it and slipped out a sheaf of yellowed paper. Clipped to it was a note bearing the signature of Sydney Liggett and the date August 7, 1914.

  I looked up. “Mrs. Cook, you have just saved the day for my clients. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “As I understand it, Pierce had intended to deliver the envelope to a Mr. Liggett in Nashville. I presume he’s your client.”

  “Actually, we were retained by his granddaughter. But we’ll see that it gets to Mr. Liggett.”

  Her face had a forlorn look. “Maybe, if Pierce had carried it to Nashville that night...”

  Her voice trailed off.

  I had to agree with her, but in this case fate didn’t allow second chances.

  “We had better get this on back before anything else happens,” I said, stuffing the papers into the envelope. I didn’t mention the latest victim of the Marathon murderer. She wasn’t ready to take on any more bad news.

  As Jill and I got up to leave, I thanked Patricia again.

  “I’m sorry my husband wasn’t in here to meet you,” she said. “He’s out back unpacking. His sister-in-law gave us tons of string beans and corn and tomatoes she’d been canning. Lord, that woman has to clean jars off the shelf every year to make room for new stuff.”

  Marcie, who had sat out of the way, watching silently, all during our stay, stepped over beside her mother and waved. “Bye,” she said. “Hope you don’t get caught in another storm.”

  “We do, too,” Jill said. “Bye, bye.”

  As we walked out to the car, I stared at the envelope. This wasn’t the time or the place to start digesting its contents, but I couldn’t help wondering what could be in it that warranted all the destruction of life it had triggered. I handed it to Jill as she slid into her seat.

  “I feel like we should have a safe in here to put this in,” she said.

  “Not a bad idea. But for the moment, just stick it under your seat.”

  Before starting the car, I called Warren.

  “I’m getting worried as hell,” he said. “Kelli hasn’t showed up and hasn’t called. Mrs. Zander—she and her husband run the place—said Kelli’s bed wasn’t slept in last night.”

  “Did you ask what kind of car she was driving? A lot of motels require that information.”

  “Yeah, I checked. It was a blue Malibu.”

  “Did they get the license number?”

  “No, but Mrs. Zander is a sharp little lady. She went out front to talk to Kelli one time and noticed the car tag was from Nashville. It had a Titans sticker on the back bumper.”

  “I’d better hire that lady. Most people don’t even pay attention to what state’s involved. What else has happened since you’ve been there?”

  “It’s been quiet, except for a wrong number. I guess that’s what it was.”

  “On your cell phone?”

  “Yeah. Guy asked who it was. When I told him Colonel Jarvis, he said, ‘Oh, sorry,’ and hung up.”

  “Well, we’re presently in Hartsville. We’ll keep an eye out for Kelli. Damn, I almost forgot about the good news. Patricia Cook, Pierce Bradley’s sister, found the Marathon papers.”

  “That’s great, Greg. Have you determined what it’s all about?”

  I looked up at the windshield as the spattering rain picked up in intensity. Although it was early evening, the dark overcast gave the landscape a look more like the fading shades of dusk.

  “The papers look pretty fragile,” I said. “We’ll need to sit down at a table and take a close look at the whole set of documents before we can make any kind of assessment.”

  “What do you plan to do now?”

  I told him about Mickey Evans’ death and the sheriff’s instructions to stay around Hartsville for the present. I also mentioned what Jill had learned at Samran about Kirk Rottman, and the word Big Mama had given us about Kelli looking for information on Casey Olson’s boss.

  “Sounds like you two have been busy,” Warren said. “I may head that way soon. I’ll give you a call.”

  Closing my phone, I plugged it into the charger connected to the car battery.

  I turned to Jill. “Where’s our Mapquest map of Hartsville?”

  Jill spread the map out in front of me as I switched on the overhead light. We had cobbled the map together by printing several scrolled out views from the computer, then taping the pages to make a single sheet. I found the street where Kirk Rottman lived running off of Old Lafayette Road east of town. It was in what you might call, for lack of a better term, the Hartsville suburbs, if a town with one traffic signal could be considered to have any such.

  “You know what we haven’t done?” Jill asked.

  “Tell me.”

  “We haven’t checked the office phone to see if Shelby Williams called with names of the people he gave Dallas Lights.”

  “Then best we do it now, babe.”

  She powered up her cell phone and called. After a moment, she punched in our answering machine replay code and listened.

  My own phone rang about that time, and I grabbed it up and answered.

  “Who is this?” a male voice asked.

  I gave my usual answer. “Who wants to know?”

  As he stammered around for a moment, I checked the caller ID. It showed a number in Hartsville. “I guess I have the wrong number,” he said and hung up.

  “Who was that?” Jill asked.

  I laid the phone down and frowned. “Who knows? What did you find out?”

  “There were five people on Williams’s list. One was Kirk Rottman.”

  I swung around in the seat and stared at her. “Did any of the others sound familiar?”

  “No. He said Kirk was the only person from within the company.”

  I rubbed the stubble on my chin. “That is troubling.”

  We reviewed what we knew about Camilla and Roger’s son, Kirk. He had been a troublemaker as a kid, drank too much, gambled, smoked pot, had been “chummy” with Casey Olson in the past week or so. He had visited Mickey Evans’ house, but she was turned off by him. And he smoked Dallas Lights.

  “Let’s go check out Mr. Rottman’s house,” I said, starting the car.

  “Shouldn’t we call the sheriff or Wayne Fought?”

  “I imagine they’re pretty busy at the moment. We’ll call after we see where young Kirk lives.”

  I drove over to Highway 25 and hung a right. I spotted the turn-off, also known as Melrose Drive, just past the funeral home where we had attended Pierce Bradley’s service on Saturday. I drove slowly, so as not to miss Rottman’s street in the semi-darkness.

  We found it in a wooded area with only a smattering of houses. The first one we came to was under construction. The framing and roof appeared finished, with work just beginning on the outside walls. An old portable concrete mixer sat beside the driveway, which had been covered with gravel. As I started past the house, Jill shouted:

  “Stop, Greg! Back up.”

  The anti-lock brakes did their thing. I shifted into reverse.

  “What’s up?”

  “That car up next to the new house. It’s blue, maybe a Malibu.”

  I pulled into the driveway, eased toward the parked car.

  I saw the Malibu nameplate and Davidson County markings on the license tag. Nashville and Davidson County were one under the Metro umbrella. The bumper contained a st
icker with a T-shaped Roman sword surrounded by three stars and a trailing flame, the familiar Titans logo.

  This was Kelli’s car.

  Chapter 39

  As I opened the door to go check on the vehicle, Jill poked the black umbrella at me. Mine was black, hers red. “You’d better take this if you don’t want to drown.”

  The pesky rain had let up a bit but still posed a problem. My shirt was damp in spots from getting in and out of the Jeep. I pulled the Glock off my leg and stuck it under my belt. I could free my gun hand quickly if necessary. With umbrella in one hand and a small flashlight in the other, I walked up to the Malibu. I kept my head swiveling back and forth, checking the area for any movement. All growth had been cleared from around the house, and it was still light enough to see into the nearby trees.

  The Malibu was locked, as expected. Shining my small point of light through a front window, I spotted a container on the floor that resembled Warren’s description of Kelli’s disguise case. The only other things I saw were a water bottle on the front seat and a copy of The Christian Science Monitor in back. She must have bought it before leaving Nashville.

  When I returned to the Jeep, Jill gave me a questioning look.

  “It’s hers,” I said. “No doubt about it. Even contains a copy of The Monitor.”

  “Where do you suppose she is?”

  “If I had to make an educated guess, I’d say somewhere around Kirk Rottman’s house. Let’s go take a look.”

  I drove on down the street past a large frame house, a small open field, then more woods, until I saw a mailbox with Rottman’s house number. I switched off the headlights and continued slowly. The house sat back in the trees, some thirty yards from the road. Blinds had been drawn in front. Light showed in a large window on the right, likely the living room.

  “There’s a car parked next to the house,” Jill said in a hushed voice.

  I eased on past until a line of tall bushes hid us from the house. Swinging onto the shoulder, which I hoped was solid enough to give the traction we’d need for a quick getaway, I pulled on the handbrake and switched off the ignition. As we sat there, something clicked in my brain.