Designed to Kill (20 page)

When we weren’t commenting on the sirens and red and blue lights, Jill and I discussed the meeting with Boz Farnsworth. First I congratulated her on another sterling performance. “You were great, babe. We’re beginning to click like an old vaudeville team.”

“Fibber McGee and Molly?”

I laughed. “Maybe a magic act. You’re pulling rabbits out of the hat that I’d’ve had a hard time coming up with.”

“Good. I want my share of the profits.”

“What is fifty percent of zero?”

She gave me a smug look. “Okay. I’ll settle for an extra hour at the Wheel of Fortune machines in
Biloxi
.”

I grinned. We had emptied two quarter Wheel of Fortune machines on our last trip to the
Mississippi
coast casinos. Though we enjoyed playing the slots, we weren’t serious gamblers. We always carried a few hundred dollars, and that was our limit. If we came back with more than we took, so much the better. Otherwise, we figured we had gotten our money’s worth. As recreation, it was a lot cheaper than what some of our friends spent on going to the Titans’ games.

“Deal,” I said.

After a brief silence, she asked, “What’s your take on Mr. Boz?”

“He did his best to paint Tim as the guilty party. I’m not sure he really believes it. He knows he should have caught that error when it happened, regardless of what the plans showed.”

“He made Detrich sound like Mr. Rogers in the neighborhood.”

“That was an obvious lie. Remember what Walt said? But why would Boz lie about Detrich?”

Jill spread her palms. “I don’t know. But I would say there is definitely something between Bosley Farnsworth and Sherry Hoffman. It’s beginning to look like the eternal triangle.”

“You think he was jealous of Tim?”

“If he wasn’t, he sure did a good job of making it look that way.”

I glanced around at her. “That would add another suspect with a motive to shoot Tim. The field is getting crowded.”

———

We arrived back at Gulf Sands around
noon
. I needed to talk with Walt Sturdivant and called
Nashville
while Jill fixed sandwiches for lunch. I had a hunch about Mr. O’Keefe, and following up hunches had solved many a case during my career.

“This is Greg,” I said when Walt picked up the phone. “I got your message about the guys who left New Horizons. This Ollie O’Keefe, what age fellow was he?”

“Just a kid. Early twenties. He seemed pretty competent, though.”

“Well, I have some questions about the areas of his competence.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just a hunch I plan to look into. Can you check back and see if he listed a previous employer?”

“Sure. I’ve still got his file on my desk. Hang on a second.” He was back in a moment with, “Paige and Wilson Contractors in
New Orleans
.” He spelled it out for me. “Will that be any help?”

“I hope so. Another question. You mentioned something yesterday about Boz’s plans calling for the wrong strength concrete. I presume that would have had an impact on the balcony.”

“You’re damned right. It would have cracked much easier. And it would have cost a lot less. Detrich saved a bundle of money on concrete and steel on that job.”

“Had any luck unscrambling the hard disk on the laptop?”

“I called a place that said they should be able to handle it. Haven’t had time to get the machine over there yet. That’s the next thing on my agenda.”

“Good luck,” I said. “Keep me informed.”

———

After lunch, I got back on the phone, this time with Paige and Wilson Contractors in
New Orleans
. I told the woman who answered that I was with an employment agency and needed to verify the employment of someone who had worked there a few years ago.

“I don’t know how far back our records go,” she said. “I’ll let you talk to Maria.”

Maria came on with a heavy Spanish accent. After I repeated my employment counselor routine, she speculated that the name might still be in the computer. She began the search, humming a tune I remembered from a high school Spanish class, and soon found a match. “Yes. We have the name. Was job foreman. Quit in March 1998. That all you want?”

“Do you know where he was before he came to
New Orleans
?”

“
Dallas
,
Texas
.”

“Thanks very much,” I said. Then I put down the phone and turned to Jill. “Claude Detrich used to work for Paige and Wilson, the same as Ollie O’Keefe. Want to guess who’s probably going to show up on the Tidewater Construction payroll soon?”

“You think O’Keefe took The Sand Castle plans?”

“That would be my guess. Of course, I’d have to find him to have any chance of proving it.”

“Didn’t Walt say the draftsman was going back to
New Orleans
?”

“That was his story. Which may or may not have been true.” I thought about what else Walt had said. “He was a young guy. I wonder if he might have lived at home?”

“Good question. How can you find out?”

We were sitting on the sofa, and I glanced across at the laptop computer on a small table next to the wall. Though Jill and I both had PCs at home, we normally didn’t stay down here long enough to make that kind of investment for Gulf Sands. So we brought the laptop along to check on investments and e-mail and do whatever else needed doing.

“One way would be to look for a phone number on Carondelet in
New Orleans
,” I said. “That’s where O’Keefe lived before joining New Horizons.”

I plugged a phone line into the laptop and opened the internet browser. Logging onto anywho.com, I entered the name O’Keefe, Carondelet as the street,
New Orleans
as the city. The search netted the name Patrick O’Keefe with an address on Carondelet and an area code 504 phone number.

Leaning toward me where she could see the screen, Jill patted my arm. “Good job. I may hire you to handle my next divorce.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said. “Does that mean I get to hide in the bushes and take photos of myself?”

I plugged the line back into the phone and dialed the
New Orleans
number. After a couple of rings, an answering machine picked up. “You’ve reached the O’Keefes,” the message began. When the beep sounded, I left my name and the number at the condo, with instructions to call me collect. Few people bother with that anymore, but I didn’t want to give the O’Keefes an excuse to disregard my request.

“Do you plan to wait here for the call?” Jill asked.

I gave her a smug look and shrugged. “I thought I’d leave you here to do that. I need to head for
Biloxi
to track down Claude Detrich.”

“At the Gulf Royale Casino?”

“Right.”

She frowned, brows knitted. “You leave here without me and your next case will be working on that divorce.”

I grinned. “Yes, ma’am. Pack us a bag. I think this calls for an overnighter.”

While Jill was packing, I got on the phone and called the pager number for my young OSI protégé Ted Kennerly. He had worked under me on his first assignment out of the
Special
Investigations
Academy
. After my retirement, we had stayed in contact with each other every month or so. Ted was stationed at Arnold Air Force Base south of
Nashville
. He had been a major help in my efforts to track down the people who held Jill hostage during the Arab/Israeli affair a year ago.

I had called him from
Pensacola
before and hoped he would recognize the phone number. He answered my page a few minutes later.

“What’s up, Boss?” he asked. He still used the term agents applied in addressing
 
their special agent in charge.

“Thanks for getting back to me, Ted. I need a little information I thought you might dig up for me.”

I explained what I was doing in
Pensacola
and that I needed anything he could get me on a contractor named Claude Detrich and a developer named Evan Baucus. I told him what little I knew about them, including reports of their past in
Dallas
and
Los Angeles
.

“I thought you had decided against being a private investigator,” he said.

“I did. This is strictly a favor for Sam. If I were really into the PI business, I’d develop my own sources for background checks. I wouldn’t be calling in any markers with you.”

“Hey, you don’t need any markers with me, Boss. You know that.”

“What I meant is I don’t want to put a strain on our friendship.”

“No problem,” he said. “Anytime. How’s Jill’s arm?”

“It’s coming along. Not as fast as she’d like, I’m sure. Recently she’s been flexing her wings as assistant PI.”

“She’s what?”

I told him how helpful she had been, that she had come up with some crucial questions during my interviews.

“That lady’s something else,” Ted said. “Give her our love. We owe you a dinner when you get back.”

We often invited the Kennerlys up for one of Jill’s culinary masterpieces. Ted always praised her cooking, contending it was as good as his mother’s. A product of the mean streets of
South Boston
, he had the street smarts to make an excellent investigator. Ted told me he’d let me know as soon as he had something on Detrich or Baucus, and we hung up.

As I was heading for the door with our bag in hand, the phone rang.

“This is Sergeant Payne, Mr. McKenzie,” the booming voice said, as if any identification were necessary.

“Yes, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”

“Lieutenant Cassel, commander of the Big Lagoon Precinct, wants you to come in and see him.”

Neither the tone nor the words indicated this was an invitation to a friendly get-together. More like a summons to an inquisition.

“I’d be happy to come see the Lieutenant,” I said. “But at the moment we’re on our way out the door, headed for
Biloxi
. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“
Biloxi
, huh? Well, I suppose so.” He didn’t sound overly enthusiastic about the idea. “That’s where Baucus and Detrich have their offices, right?”