Designed to Kill (8 page)
“What do you know about him?”
“Not a lot. I met him a couple of times when I was down there with Tim. He’s around sixty, Tim said. But not a gray hair in his head. I’ll bet he dyes it. He’s a real dandy and a control freak. Tim said he went to law school but never took the bar exam. Was involved in real estate for a long time. Came from LA, as I recall.”
While Jill and I ate beef stew and Walt devoured a plate of chicken strips, he gave us the sketchy details he had accumulated regarding The Sand Castle development crew. During a tour of the project early in the construction phase, Walt said, Baucus ordered his people around like some kind of third-world tyrant. But as soon as a local official showed up, he made a chameleon shift into an affable, smooth-talking businessman.
“Robbie Renegar told me you’d had trouble collecting on your invoices,” I said.
“Right. Tim had to raise a bit of hell about it. We finally got our money.”
“Did you have any questions about the construction?”
“Tim had problems with the contractor. His name is Claude Detrich, a big bear of a guy, the polar opposite of Baucus. He’s about as suave as a water buffalo.”
“What kind of problems?”
“He wanted to change a lot of specs to save money.”
“Like what?”
“Cheaper plumbing fixtures, for one. Tim said no way. They were selling The Sand Castle as a luxury condo. That meant they had to have top of the line amenities. There were some more serious issues, too. Detrich insisted on always taking the low bid on materials. Tim was concerned with quality, durability.”
“How was it resolved?”
“I’m not sure it ever was. That’s why Tim spent so much time down there. He would argue and cajole and threaten. But he couldn’t be there all the time. They say Detrich is a good old boy who gets along well with his workers. But he likes to act the tough guy with most people. He has a quick temper, doesn’t take well to criticism. Tim was never sure he hadn’t missed something.”
What our waitress lacked in sophistication, she made up in commitment. Walt’s Coke was constantly refilled. The level in our coffee cups rarely dropped halfway. Jill and I normally skip dessert in a restaurant, but the waitress was so insistent that we gave in and ordered the Baked Apple Dumplin.
While waiting for it, I asked Walt about the other person he had mentioned.
“Threshold Inspector,” Walt said. “He’s a structural engineer licensed by the State of
Florida
. He’s used to oversee large projects. The general contractor hires him, but he’s paid by the developer.”
“He represents the state?”
“He certifies to the state and county that the job meets all specifications.”
“Tell me about The Sand Castle inspector.”
“His name is Bosley Farnsworth. Goes by the name Boz. I understand he came from a prominent
Pensacola
family. He gave me the impression of being a real snob. I don’t know if that’s why he seemed to dislike us. Whatever, he enjoyed making things rough for Tim. He nitpicked the project at every turn.”
The picture at Perdido Key was getting murkier. No wonder Tim had given Sam the impression that something was bothering him. I now knew there were at least three people in
Florida
with whom he had serious disagreements. But were any of them serious enough to figure into the questions I faced as an investigator—if Tim Gannon did not kill himself, who shot him...and why?
10
Before leaving the Cracker Barrel, I called the sheriff’s office in
Pensacola
and advised them we should be arriving between
and
. A helpful young woman gave me directions to the impound yard behind the headquarters building just off
Fairfield Drive
. Due to some fortunate planning by the State of
Alabama
, the northbound lanes of I-65 had been chosen to suffer all the construction woes that day. We hit the Flomaton Exit right on schedule. We sped past white-dappled fields of cotton ready for picking, through forests of pines cultivated for wood pulp, crossed a short section of the
Sunshine
State
and got an odious welcome to paper mill country. Plumes of smoke and an outpouring of unfriendly smells greeted us.
The sun was settling slowly toward the
Alabama
line when we arrived at the old Spanish port city of
Pensacola
, the last outpost at the western tip of the
Florida
panhandle. After coming in through an area of attractive homes on large wooded lots, we found the afternoon rush hour considerably less harrowing than the motorized mayhem we were accustomed to around
Nashville
. I pulled up to the gate in the high chain-link fence behind the nondescript building on
West Leonard Street
at
. An officer in green coveralls and a baseball cap stenciled with
SHERIFF
greeted us.
“I’m Greg McKenzie from
Nashville
,” I said. “We’re here to pick up Tim Gannon’s Chevy Blazer and his personal effects.”
He nodded. “They told me you were coming. I’m Deputy Erwin. Sergeant Payne is on the way with the personal stuff. The Blazer is over there near the fence.”
He pointed to a nearby cluster of cars, few of recent vintage, most with an assortment of nasty blemishes. I introduced Jill and Walt as we walked toward the white vehicle with the
Tennessee
plate and an orange UT Vols sticker on the back window.
“I’ll be driving it back,” Walt said. “Do you have the keys?”
The deputy pulled them out of his pocket, unlocked the driver side door and opened it. “You’ll probably want to take it to a car wash,” he said. “It’s just like we found it.”
“Was it checked for fingerprints?” I asked.
Erwin frowned. “What for? We’re talking suicide.”
Just as I figured. Attempting to come up with anything significant now would likely be a useless exercise. No telling how many hands had been on the door handles, not to mention all around inside the vehicle.
“What if the medical examiner had determined otherwise?” I asked.
“Then we’d have gone over it with a fine tooth comb. We’ve had it right here since the wrecker hauled it in.”
“Sergeant Payne told me about the gun and that he had looked for a note,” I said. “Did the crime scene techs check the car before it was moved?”
“You’ll have to ask the Sergeant.”
“Did you find a big blueprint case?” Walt asked. “Tim probably would have kept it in the Blazer.”
The deputy shook his head. “Nothing but the usual contents of the glove compartment. Gas receipts, insurance card, registration slip, Band Aids, that sort of thing.”
“There should have been a key to my condo,” I said.
“Not unless it’s one of these.” Deputy Erwin held out Tim’s key chain, which was attached to a white medallion bearing a large orange T.
I shook my head as Walt took the keys from him and started to slip into the Blazer. Logically, Walt was well aware that Tim had died in this vehicle, but the full impact did not hit him until he glanced down and saw the large splotch of dark red on the seat. His face blanched as the horror hit him.
“Oh, shit,” he mumbled.
Jill saw the blood, too, and turned away, shaking her head, eyes closed.
Now they knew why the deputy had suggested taking the Blazer to a car wash. “We’ve got an old beach towel in the back of the Jeep,” I said. “I’ll lay it across the seat and cover that.”
I walked over to my Jeep to grab the frayed towel, then spread it out on the seat of the Blazer. At the sound of a car driving up, I turned to see a white police cruiser with green stripes and markings of the Escambia County Sheriff’s Office.
SERGEANT
was painted on the front fender. The deputy who stepped out, carrying a brown plastic bag, was awesome in size. He made my somewhat stocky five-ten frame look undernourished.
The sight brought a momentary flashback to my childhood, when I would stand in awe of my father, a huge Scot with a bushy black beard and a boisterous laugh. He looked like a character out of the movie
Braveheart
. One of the main differences between him and the deputy was a Santa-size belly. A master brewer with Anheuser-Busch in
St. Louis
, my dad took product loyalty to the extreme.
“Sergeant J. W. Payne,” the deputy said as he strode toward me. “You must be McKenzie.”
“That’s right, Sergeant,” I said. “This is my wife Jill, and this is Walt Sturdivant, vice president of New Horizons Architects and Engineers.”
The deputy shook Walt’s hand, then spoke in a deep, resonant voice. “You worked for Mr. Gannon?”
Walt nodded. “I plan to drive the Blazer back after taking a look at The Sand Castle.”
“I expect the Building Inspection Department folks will want to talk to you. They’re putting together a team to investigate what kind of flaw caused that accident.”
“The
Sand
Castle
was designed to last a lifetime,” Walt said, eyes narrowed. “If a balcony fell, the contractor must have screwed up.”
“That’s not the tale they’re telling,” Payne said.
Walt frowned. “The contractor?”
“Yes, sir. And the developer. I understand they say the design was faulty.”
“That’s a crock.” Walt’s voice was almost a growl. “We’ll see when they check the plans and specs.”
I pointed to the bag the sergeant held. “Is that Tim’s personal effects?”
“His billfold, change, articles from his pockets. I’ll need you to sign for them.”
He held out an inventory sheet with a place for my signature. I compared the contents of the bag with the list, then took the ballpoint he offered and penned my name.
“Sergeant, did your crime scene techs check out the car and the area around it at the Seashore?” I asked.
His face hardened into stone. “There was no call for it. This was an obvious case of suicide.”
“You didn’t consider the possibility that a thorough check of the scene might turn up evidence of foul play?”
Payne’s teeth clenched and his jaw twitched. “I was sure it wouldn’t.”
I decided I had provoked him enough for the moment. “Did you ever find my condo key?”
“No, sir.” He struggled to keep his composure.
