Designed to Kill (29 page)

“Right. The comment didn’t make any sense to me, but I thought it might to you.”

At the moment, it didn’t.

“I understand he’s not on the best of terms with his dad now,” I said. “If he was willing to push old dad to finance your campaign, this business must really have him shook up.”

“I thought so, too,” Sherry said. “I know he was on edge after the building inspector called him in last Monday to ask about his certifications. Last night Boz called again and said they want him at a hearing on the accident this coming Monday. That’s really got him pulling his hair.”

I thought of Boz’s thick crop of wavy blond hair and tried to imagine him pulling out a handful. But I was more intrigued by what we had just learned about the Threshold Inspector.

“We really appreciate your leveling with us,” I told Sherry. “I know you want that Senate seat, but I’m sure you can find the financing in a more palatable way.”

She nodded. “I hope so.”

36

On the drive back to Gulf Sands, Jill looked around uncertainly. “Do you think this makes Boz a more likely suspect?”

“He’s certainly a much bigger question mark now. Obviously, he knows a lot more than he let on. But will this give me a big enough wedge to pry any more out of him? I’m not sure.”

“What about that comment on playing too much tennis? Make any sense to you?”

I had thought about the possibilities. Where should he have been, on the job? Perhaps, but there must have been more to it than that.

“I’m still working on that one,” I said.

I had kept a close watch on the traffic both going and coming from The Shell Game, and now I swept my gaze around the Gulf Sands parking lot. No black Caddy or any other strange vehicle with watchful occupants. We got back to the condo just before eleven, and Jill stirred us up two large cups of cappuccino with a French Vanilla mix.

I quickly reviewed the tape in the VCR and found only a couple of cars besides my Jeep going in and out of the lot. There were also two pairs of walkers headed out to the road. I rewound the tape and had just sat down on the sofa to savor my cappuccino when the phone rang.

“You’re going to love this, Boss,” said Ted Kennerly.

“You must have dug up something juicy.”

“Did I. Your contractor has quite a background, including several brushes with the law. Turns out he was originally from
Greenville
,
Texas
, just east of
Dallas
.”

“I didn’t expect you to come up with anything this fast,” I said.

He laughed. “I really hit it lucky on this one. My
Dallas
source had just come off a really tough assignment and was ready to tackle something simple. He found that back in the seventies, Claude Detrich signed on with an American contractor building big projects in
Saudi Arabia
. Hospitals and that sort of thing. Evidently Detrich was good with his mouth as well as his hands, and he wound up talking himself into the job of doling out construction materials. He was canned in the late seventies and sent home when they caught him selling steel and concrete to the Arabs.”

“A real self-made entrepreneur.”

“Can’t you just see them hauling off loads of rebars and bags of cement strapped to the backs of camels?”

“I suspect they were a little more sophisticated than that,” I said.

“Probably so. Anyway, there’s more. Back in
Dallas
, he moved about in the heavy construction field, getting in a few brawls and making the police reports. Then in the late eighties, he moved into home building. He got in with an older guy who soon decided to retire. When Detrich took over, he started producing cheap tract homes in the suburbs. The quality was poor and the complaints poured in. He has a nice fat file at the Better Business Bureau. When the heat got too much for him, he bailed out and resurfaced in
New Orleans
. I think you know the rest.”

“Right,” I said. “He’s still up to the same old tricks, cutting corners to save money. Doing shoddy construction. Thanks a million, Ted. You did a terrific job in a short time.”

“As you well know, Boss, in this business sources are everything.”

“True. You obviously have some good ones.”

“Well, my
Los Angeles
source just got off leave and hasn’t had time to do much on Evan Baucus. Shouldn’t take him long, though. Hopefully I’ll have something for you by Monday. And speaking of sources, I just thought of one that might interest you. Do you remember Red Tarkington, the NCIS agent we worked with at
Pearl Harbor
?”

“Sure. Sharp guy.” We had worked with the Navy investigator on a smuggling case in
Hawaii
not long before I retired.

“I ran into him in
Washington
a couple of months ago. He’s stationed at Pensacola NAS. I told him about your condo down there. He said you should call him sometime. Maybe he can give you a little help.”

I thought of something else Ted might be able to do. “Are you still in touch with your FBI contact, the one who helped us out with the Israelis last year?”

“Yeah. He’s still in
New York
.”

“See if he might be able to find some info on an outfit called Perseid, Limited. They’re based on
Grand Cayman
.”

“Shouldn’t be any problem. How do you spell it?”

I told him. “Thanks, Ted,” I said. “Be sure and give Karen our love.”

“Will do. Say, how is Jill making out with her PI assignments?”

“Fantastic. Turns out she has a real knack for this sort of thing. She’s especially good with women.”

“I may be calling on you two for some help,” Ted said.

“Any time, buddy. We’re in your debt.”

When I related the conversation to Jill, her eyes widened. “Sounds like Detrich is just the sort of guy who would do what we think he did.”

I stretched my arms and ran a finger gently down the side of my face. The Band-Aids were still intact. If those hoods worked for Detrich, I really owed him a takedown.

“Yeah,” I said. “Now all I have to do is find the proof.”

37

I called Boz Farnsworth’s office and got a youthful-sounding female voice. She informed me he was due back from the tennis court at any time now. I identified myself and said it was urgent that I speak with him. Surprisingly, he took me at my word and called back about fifteen minutes later.

“What’s so urgent?” he asked.

“I’ve received some other information that concerns you,” I said. “We need to get together and talk about it.”

“I’ve got enough problems. I don’t need to talk to you about anything.”

“I think you do. I’ll have to turn over my investigative files to the sheriff soon. As it stands, they will haul you in for a very rigorous interrogation.” A bit of an exaggeration, perhaps, but not entirely out of line. “You’d be a lot better off talking with me now and getting things straightened out before they get any messier.”

“What kind of things?”

“Not on the phone. It has to be one-on-one.”

“Does it concern that hearing on Monday?”

“That and other things.”

“Damn you, McKenzie. Have you been talking to Sherry again?”

“I’ve been talking to a lot of people and learned a lot of things. What time can we meet?”

His heavy breathing gave me a picture of a man in turmoil. Clearly I had struck a nerve, or at the very least, piqued his curiosity beyond a point where he could disregard the possibilities.

“Be here at
one o’clock
,” he said in an angry voice.

“You can count on it,” I said.

———

At ten till one, I let Jill out at
Sacred
Heart
Hospital
for her therapy session. She hated to miss the confrontation with Boz, but after getting her arm bumped around last night, she was acutely aware of the need to get back to the rehab routine. A few minutes later, I parked beside Boz’s Corvette in front of the white brick building that housed BF Inspections and went inside. The owner of the young female voice was nowhere to be seen, but the blustery would-be tennis pro was in his office.

He took one look at me and said, “Wreck your car?”

I grinned and gave the excuse I’d decided on for future questioners. “I had an unfortunate encounter with a gravel driveway.”

“Where’s your wife?”

“She had a physical therapy appointment. She had rotator cuff surgery a couple of months ago and is in rehab for it.”

He actually showed a bit of concern. “One of my tennis partners had that recently. He says it’s bad news.”

“I’m sure Jill would agree.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “So what’s this new information?”

“A few questions first. I understand you and Claude Detrich were at a bar down the beach after the accident. Which one was it?”

“The Key Hole.”

We didn’t frequent the bars, but I had seen the Key Hole in passing near the
Alabama
state line.

“What did you talk about?” I asked.

He shrugged. “The accident, of course. What probably caused it.”

“What did you conclude?”

“That it was Tim Gannon’s faulty design specs. Like I told you before.”

“What time did you and Detrich leave the bar?”

He hesitated before answering. Finally, he said, “What do you want to know that for? You think somebody killed Tim, don’t you? Are you implying that it might have been me?”

“I only want to establish what time you and Detrich left the bar. That does not imply anything.”

“Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights before you ask a question like that?”

I smiled. “That’s called Mirandizing. It’s only done after you arrest someone for a crime. My investigation is not an official police matter...yet.”