Designed to Kill (2 page)
Claude Detrich had just stepped back through the door. He spun around and gawked as he saw the balcony tilting downward, like a true drawbridge, headed in the wrong direction. The chains held, then snapped. Fortunately, it was enough time for some of the revelers to grab the vertical iron supports or the top rung of the railing.
“Oh, my God.”
That was all Detrich could mutter as he stared down through the dim moonlight at the sight of people clinging frantically to the black wrought iron sides, others heaped against the railing at the bottom like a pile of dirty clothes.
Responding to the commotion, Tim ran across to the doorway and darted a startled look past Detrich.
What he saw was unbelievable.
The impossible had happened.
Tim’s naval training had taught him to react instantly to emergencies. He turned to Sherry Hoffman, who had walked up behind him.
“The balcony gave way!” he yelled. “Call
He directed another shout at Detrich. “Get a fire hose!”
Tim stepped over to the window that faced one side of the balcony. He knew every intimate detail of every feature in the building and quickly detached the glass pane, dropping it to the carpet. Stripping off his jacket, he clutched the window facing with one hand, swung a leg out and stretched his other arm down toward a girl who clung frantically to the railing.
No matter how hard he stretched, he couldn’t quite reach her.
“Climb like it’s a ladder,” he called, attempting to keep his voice calmer than he felt.
She finally began to move toward him and he seized her hand in a vise-like grip. As he pulled upward, another pair of arms reached through the window to help. A muscular black real estate agent hurried to the opposite window and began a similar rescue operation on that side.
By the time Detrich arrived with the length of heavy brown fire hose, the sound of sirens filled the night air. Red and blue lights appeared below, turning and flashing nervously. Tim left the window to others and knotted the fire hose around his chest.
“Lower me down,” he said to Detrich.
For once Tim got no argument. Pushing himself through the opening, he began to inch downward, scraping bare arms against the rough concrete floor of the balcony. A flashlight suddenly shined past him to illuminate the crumpled bodies jammed against the end railing. Some moaned. One woman with short gray hair screamed hysterically.
When he reached the bottom, Tim signaled Detrich to stop. He looked for the person in the worst shape, choosing a slender, casually-dressed man who lay unconscious, his limbs flung out like discarded matches. Tim lifted him carefully beneath the arms.
“Pull us up,” he called.
The ascent was slow and painful, but soon strong hands reached out to grasp the injured man and pull him to safety.
“Hey, let me down.” Tim glared as Detrich continued to tug upward on the fire hose.
“These guys say they’ll take over,” Detrich said.
Tim saw a blue-uniformed fireman waiting in the doorway, an intense look on his face. A member of the rescue unit from the Innerarity Point Volunteer Fire Department, the man carried a coil of rope over his shoulder. Another fireman behind him held an aluminum sling used for hoisting victims out of precarious spots. Paramedics from the Escambia County Emergency Medical Service had also arrived and were giving first aid to victims laid out on the floor.
“Are you okay, sir?” one of the paramedics asked. Tim’s shirt was torn and red abrasions showed where he had scraped against the balcony’s surface.
“I’m all right,” Tim said. “Take care of the others.”
“You’d better sit down and get some rest,” Evan Baucus said, showing unaccustomed concern. He ushered Tim toward a chair beside one of the bars. “Want something to drink?”
“Just water,” Tim said. He still breathed deeply. His heart pounded in his chest. The adrenalin was yet to wear off, and he hadn’t come to terms with the full significance of what had happened. Watching Baucus’ hand shake as the normally unruffled developer reached for a glass at the bar, Tim realized this was the first time he had seen Baucus looking every bit a man pushing sixty.
Suddenly the place went strangely quiet. Tim looked up to see a giant of a man strolling across the room. A tall Stetson added to his already considerable height. His size strained the forest green fabric of his uniform. But he was made of muscle, not fat. And though some cops tended to swagger with a sidearm strapped on, there was nothing but calm, purposeful motion in his stride.
After staring through the French doors for a moment, he turned around, his voice booming. “Who’s in charge here?”
Baucus looked across warily. “I’m Evan Baucus, president of the company that developed The Sand Castle.”
“Sergeant J. W. Payne,” the deputy said. “Big Lagoon Precinct, Escambia County Sheriff’s Office. As soon as the paramedics have everything under control, I’m closing off this area as a crime scene.”
“Crime scene?” Tim shoved himself up from the chair.
Sergeant Payne sized him up. “Who are you?”
“Tim Gannon. My company designed and engineered this building.”
“Well, Mr. Gannon, your balcony appears to have caused the deaths of two citizens of
Escambia
County
. This
—
”
“Two people
—”
“Died, Mr. Gannon. Apparently because of the failure of your balcony. An investigator from the Medical Examiner’s office is on his way. He’ll determine the cause of death, but somebody will have to investigate the cause of this accident. I’m not sure who that will be, but I’m closing the area until it’s decided.”
Tim slumped back into the chair. Two people had toppled off that balcony, fallen fifteen floors to their deaths. His face turned ashen as the reality sunk in.
His
balcony had failed . . . fatally.
But why?
1
I awoke to a strange-sounding clatter. Looking up from the pillow, I saw my wife Jill standing by the bed, shaking what appeared to be a coffee can from my workbench. It was likely one I used for spare nuts and bolts. A cardboard mask of Spiderman I had last seen on the back of a raisin bran box hid her face. Bright blue eyes stared at me through peepholes in a fiery red face criss-crossed with web-like black stripes.
“Rise up O sleeping one,” she chanted. “The goblins’ll get you if you don’t watch out.”
The drapes had been pulled enough to allow a glimpse of pale morning light. The clock showed it was somewhere around eight, though it didn’t seem all that long since I had put down the mystery I was reading, a real page-turner. As best I could recall, that had been sometime after
Funny, but my wife is usually the difficult one to get out of bed. She was obviously enjoying this switch in roles.
My frown battled with a yawn. “Halloween is nearly two weeks off,” I said. “Damned if you don’t look sillier than a goose.”
The can clattered to the floor as she jerked off the mask. “That’s a terrible simile,” she said. “There’s nothing inherently silly about a goose. Maybe their honking’s a little borderline, but a flock of geese in V formation is as pretty as a flight of Blue Angels. Which reminds me, why don’t we head down to the condo today?”
The condo was our hideaway on the beach in
Florida
, located on Perdido Key a few miles from the home of the Navy’s Blue Angels precision flying team. Now that I was fully awake, I swung my legs off the bed, grabbed Jill’s right hand and tugged her down beside me. She had on a knee-length, flowery gown that did little to hide a body that bulged seductively in all the right places. And though I’m a tad beyond sixty-five, my sap still rises as faithfully as that of a stately maple.
I started to slip an arm around her waist. “I can think of better things to do on a nice fall Saturday morning,” I said.
She fell back on the bed and looked up with a smile of mock innocence. “That won’t require but a few minutes, Mr. Mc
K
enzie. Then can we take off for
Florida
?”
I swooped my head down like a gray-feathered predator and nibbled on her ear. “You’ll be sorry you said that, babe.”
As she started to squirm, I reached around and accidentally hit her left arm. It brought an immediate groan and a twisted look of distress.
I felt as if the pain were my own. Barely a month and a half ago, Jill had undergone surgery to patch up a bad tear of the rotator cuff in her left shoulder. The first week post-knife had been pure hell. She was forced to sleep on a recliner in the living room to find any relief. I had witnessed the pain that accompanied her therapy sessions at the rehab center, as well as the obvious discomfort brought on by doing her exercises at home.
After a few moments, she managed a thin smile. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
I gave her an indulgent look. “Tim is using the condo. Remember?”
Tim was the son of our closest friends in
Nashville
, Sam and Wilma Gannon. We had bought the two-bedroom condo in a development called Gulf Sands not long after our move to
Tennessee
following my retirement from the Air Force. The beachside condominium was Jill’s idea. I grew up in
St. Louis
, a long way from any balmy shores. But Jill was a native Nashvillian and had been a regular
Florida
visitor as a girl, vacationing there every summer with her parents.
We hadn’t spent all that much time at Gulf Sands for a variety of reasons. But whenever we were down there, Jill loved to sit on our second-floor balcony and watch the black shapes of playful dolphins bobbing in and out of the water beyond the churning surf. Sam and Wilma had visited us there on one occasion, and we had let Tim use the place several times over the past eighteen months to oversee work on a major resort project he had designed. The luxury condominium was being built just up the beach from us.
Admittedly, I’ve enjoyed some aspects of Perdido Key, particularly the seafood we gorged ourselves on. But let’s face it. Without an election contest and a flock of chads to fight over (pregnant, dimpled, hanging—were the ballots all female?),
Florida
doesn’t hold that much excitement for me. Swimming and fishing aren’t among my passions. And at my age I’m not thrilled a bit by large round-eared rodents. Additionally, after I’d suffered a bout with actinic keratosis (scaly places on my face), the dermatologist warned me to avoid the sun like the plague. All in all, I looked on
Florida
as a place where I could easily be bored to death. And boredom was exactly what I did not need, having lately wallowed in more than my fill of it.
I had retired in the mid-nineties as an agent with the OSI, the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. About three years ago, I landed an interesting job as an investigator for the DA’s office in
Nashville
, only to get ousted over a nasty incident involving a newspaper and a bull-headed Murder Squad detective. That was more than a year ago. Since then, I’d practically worn out a recliner reading all I could stomach of encyclopedia-length thrillers by the likes of Tom Clancy and Robert Ludlum. I also watched enough TV specials on geography and nature to earn a degree in scientific trivia. And despite Jill’s best efforts at finding an antidote for my restlessness, I had begun to wander about the house like a caged tiger—she would probably have said a cooped rooster. Hell, I had never really learned to enjoy leisure, forced or unforced.
