Designed to Kill (35 page)
“That’s correct, Sergeant. Deputy Jenkins said he would report to the Lieutenant and see how he wanted to follow up. Is anything being done?”
“We’re looking for the car, but nothing has turned up. It was a rental car out of
New Orleans
.”
“I’m aware of that,” I said. “A friend with NCIS told me the rental company was owned by the mob. He said their soldiers used the cars. Maybe Lieutenant Cassel was right when he suggested my attackers were Mafia.”
Payne frowned. “Who would have sent them?”
“That’s what I’d like to know but haven’t figured out yet. What else does the Sheriff’s Office plan to do?”
“Don’t know there’s anything else we can do, unless you can give us some idea who would have sent them and why.”
I shrugged. “The why seems pretty obvious. Somebody thinks I’ve learned too much. If I can find out anything about who, I’ll let you know.”
“Do you think you’re still in danger, Mr. McKenzie?” His face was calm and unreadable.
“I certainly hope not.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to say as he walked past us into the church.
45
“It sounds like you aren’t sure whether those people might still be lurking around somewhere,” Jill said as we got to the Jeep.
“We can’t be certain, but the fact the police haven’t turned up the car leads me to believe those two guys have gone back to
New Orleans
.”
“But two other guys, or those two in a different car, could be back.”
I held the door open for her. “Let’s not worry about it for now. We’ll go back to the condo, read the Sunday paper, then head for the Bayside Grill.”
———
The restaurant was located on a spit of land that jutted out from
Orange
Beach
into a part of
Perdido
Bay
called Bayou St. John. Housed in a low wooden building, the Bayside Grill sat opposite a large structure that included dry dock facilities for boat repair. The Bayside had a Sunday brunch that we delighted in if for no other reason than the basket of bread they brought to get you started. In the mix were such goodies as orange, banana nut and chocolate muffins. We arrived just after eleven to beat the crowd and were seated on the wooden porch facing a marina filled with boats of all sizes.
The day was still a tad on the cool side, but the hot coffee they served with the muffins kept us comfortable. We decided to be different and ordered the banana-stuffed French toast for our entree. While waiting, we talked about where the investigation stood and what might lie ahead.
“Maybe I should do my thing with Greta Baucus like I did with Sherry,” Jill said.
“I don’t know what help she could give us other than what she’s already done. That inadvertent tip about the phone call her husband made is the best lead we’ve got at the moment.”
“Have you thought of any way you might get something more out of Boz?”
I finished off a muffin and shook my head. “We’ll go to that hearing in the morning and hope something turns up there. I imagine Walt will be coming down tonight.”
———
We drove onto the Navy base shortly before two. Security had been reinforced since the new date of infamy,
Museum
of
Naval Aviation
. The parking area was crowded on a bright Sunday afternoon. We parked and walked toward the building.
The flight line tour bus, a gaudily painted trolley, sat under the canopy in front of the doorway. The grizzled retired pilot who served as driver roamed nearby, recruiting passengers for the free ride. We waved him off, having already taken the drive on more than one occasion. The route circled past rows of restored vintage military aircraft parked on the tarmac. We walked into the high-ceilinged, open lobby, past the information counter staffed with more retirees, and the IMAX theater ticket office and entered the museum. Off to the right of the colorful aircraft displays was the entrance to the Cubi Bar and Cafe.
Inside stood the bar that had served countless sailors during its heyday at the air station that was part of the giant
Subic Bay
naval base, long since returned to the Philippine government. The tables listed various aviation squadrons that had flown in the area. Plaques contained the names of aircrews, and Vietnam War mementos were everywhere, including countless photographs of flight-suited pilots.
Beyond the bar area, other tables were available for patrons desiring to order meals. That was where we found Red Tarkington waiting for us with a Bud bottle in hand. He was about my height but slimmer, short red hair, a handsome boyish face. I took him to be mid-forties. He stood as we approached.
“Guess I should salute, Colonel,” he said with a grin. “Didn’t know I was in such august company when we were over at
Pearl
. Ted told me you came from a long line of military men.”
It was true. When the 98
th
Argyllshire Highlanders were first mustered in 1794 at
Stirling
Castle
, north of
Glasgow
, there were sixteen McKenzies on the roster, one of them an ancestor of mine. After the unit was re-designated the 91
st
, other McKenzies followed him on down to 1881 when the 91
st
was merged with the 93
rd
Sutherland Highlanders to form the regiment my grandfather fought with in the Boer War and World War I. My dad, Rob McKenzie, was a little less combative, serving as a U.S. Army cook in World War II.
“Good to see you again, Red,” I said. “Meet my wife Jill.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” His grin faded as he studied my face. “That thanks to your
New Orleans
admirers?”
I nodded as we sat down. “They paid a return visit last night. This time I greeted them with Beretta in hand.”
“Good for you, Greg. Bet they beat a hasty retreat.”
“They did. But I’m still not sure who they were or who sent them.”
I filled him in on the investigation as Jill sipped on a soft drink and I had a beer. Like me, Red had a police background, spending a few years with the
Louisville
, Kentucky PD. He had received several commendations for his work in the Navy.
“I was involved in a little excitement over at Perdido Key one evening not long ago,” Red said.
“What happened?”
“I was coming out of a restaurant along the
Intracoastal Waterway
when a small motorboat that had just tied up caught fire. A young couple was on board, and the guy slipped while helping his wife onto the pier. I saw him hit his head and fall into the water.”
Jill cringed.
“That’s awful.”
“Fortunately I was wearing shorts,” Red said. “I kicked off my shoes and dove in. I did lifeguard duty in my younger days, and I managed to get him out without too much hassle. Turned out he was a young lieutenant from the base.”
“I knew you were a good man to have around,” I said. “Wish you’d been over at
Orange
Beach
Thursday night.”
“Sorry I wasn’t. You figure this developer’s the perp now, huh?”
“Right. And I’m wondering if you might be able to help us on that score. I need his cell phone log for early last Saturday morning.”
Red frowned. “Wouldn’t be any problem if it was a Navy case, of course. But I’ve developed some good telephone contacts. Depending on the company, I might be able to get hold of what you need.”
I handed him a business card that contained my name, P.O. Box and
RETIRED
. I had written Baucus’ cell phone number on the back. “I don’t know the company, but I’m sure you can find out from the number.”
“Yeah. No problem there. I’ll do some calling around and see what I can learn in the morning. How’s my buddy Kennerly?”
“I hope he’s staying out of trouble,” I said with a laugh. “If I’d leave him alone, he probably would.”
He looked at Jill, then back at me. “He told me what he helped you do on that scroll business. I’m glad everything worked out okay.”
I patted Jill’s hand. “She got the worst of it. Recently had rotator cuff surgery because of a fall over there the night it ended. The Zalman guy you mentioned and his buddy Lipkowitz gave us the most trouble. Except, of course, for the character called Moriah. But he got it in the end.”
Red smiled. “Well, you’ll be happy to know Zalman and Lipkowitz are both current residents at an Israeli prison. We nailed them and their sailor friends for trafficking in stolen government property.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That makes my day.”
Jill nodded at me. “Now if we can find a way to pin down Mr. Baucus tomorrow, you’ll be on Cloud Nine.”
That was not the position I found myself in when we arrived at Gulf Sands an hour later.
46
When I pulled in, the spot where I usually parked was occupied by a large white pickup with Tidewater Construction painted on the door. The window had been lowered and I could see the large and somber face of Claude Detrich peering out. I had no idea why he was here, but I had a solid hunch his interest wasn’t in furthering my career as a PI without portfolio.
I parked two spaces down and saw the truck door swing open as Jill and I alighted from the Jeep. Detrich confronted me immediately with his fists planted against the oversize waist of his blue jeans. He wore a short-sleeve yellow shirt that revealed a diamond-studded gold Rolex on his left wrist. If he was trying to impress me, he had. His black hair was hidden mostly by a white Saints cap.
“I hear you’ve been asking questions about me down at the Key Hole,” he said in a loud voice. “What the hell for?”
I drew back slightly as his alcoholic breath hit me. “You didn’t seem interested in telling us where you went when you left there on Friday night,” I said. “So I asked the bartender.”
“What did he say?”
“That you called Baucus and he came after you. Where did he take you?”
He snorted. “To my damned apartment, if you must know.”
