Designed to Kill (11 page)
Though Jill was only an indistinct outline in the darkness, her voice came through loud and clear. “What are you thinking?”
She knows me too well to deny I was thinking about Tim and what we had uncovered so far. “I don’t like this business of the missing plans and the missing files. It has to tie in with that collapsed balcony. But who ordered the theft? And also, what the hell happened to our condo key?”
“Walt says those plans would show the contractor used the wrong size bars—rib
...whatever they’re called.”
“Rebars. Yeah, and despite some early misgivings about him, I haven’t had the feeling that Walt was deliberately lying about any of this. But could he have a faulty memory? What if the plans didn’t specify larger rebars? Tim would have known it. Could he have deleted the file here, then called somebody in
Nashville
he trusted, to do away with any evidence of the blunder there?”
“What about the laptop?” she asked.
“Good question.”
This was shaping up to be a damnably troubling case. The only comparable situation I could recall involved an investigation I worked on back in the eighties. The OSI was ordered to look into a rash of accidents involving a fighter aircraft after rumors that defective parts may have been used by the manufacturer. Tests showed the materials used in fabrication did not meet the specifications called for in the contract. Somebody had substituted something cheaper.
We traced the problem back to a small company that supplied the metal stock for machined parts. The owner was an engineer. We found he had doctored the specification sheets to boost his profits. Unfortunately, his playing fast and loose with the project resulted in the death of a pilot. The owner ended up facing a murder charge. He tried to commit suicide but botched the attempt.
For Sam and Wilma’s sake, I hoped I would be able to prove that Tim’s role in this case was something entirely different.
13
The water sparkled like a sea of diamonds beneath the sun’s glare. Breakers crashed white and frothy, the foam scurrying crab-like onto the beach. I actually found myself smiling at the glistening white sand that stretched off to either side as far as I could see. And even though the puzzle I was trying to fit together seemed to get more difficult with each new piece I turned up, getting back into “the game,” conducting a real investigation, had done wonders for my attitude. For a change, the morning view from our Gulf Sands balcony appeared downright charming.
“Breakfast is ready,” Jill called.
I turned away from the railing to find her taking a seat at the white plastic table set with cups of coffee and plates of bagels. A container of strawberry-flavored, fat-free cream cheese sat in the middle, along with the coffee carafe.
“Looks like a great morning for walking,” I said as I joined her.
“Glory be.” She rolled her eyes in amazement. “Last time we were down here, I thought I’d have to beat you with a bamboo pole to get you out on the street.”
I blamed the weather for that—it had been too damned hot. Anyway, I had been better about working to keep in shape since I was nearly done in by a lack of stamina at the climax of that rescue trip a year ago. Most of the time when we came down to Perdido Key, we did our walking on the road up to the National Seashore.
“I thought we’d do the usual,” I said. “See if we can locate the ranger. I’d like to take a look at where Tim’s car was found.”
“I’ll be ready to go soon as I do my exercises.”
As I started painting my bagel pink with cream cheese, the thundering roar of jet engines sent a shock wave through the air. I looked up just in time to see two Navy F-18 Hornets flash by no more than a few hundred yards offshore. No doubt a couple of Blue Angels honing their jet jockey skills. The team gave dress rehearsals occasionally at the Naval Air Station.
“Think we’ll have a chance to see the show this time around?” Jill asked.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On how many problems I run into with this investigation.”
“What kind of problems are you looking for?”
“I never look for problems, babe. But they seem to have no trouble finding me.” I stared morosely at my bagel before taking a bite.
“Maybe this will be different.”
I doubted that. I always figured if things were going too well with a case it meant I was headed in the wrong direction...or overlooking something.
After we finished breakfast, I set up Jill’s pulley device on the bathroom door and she labored through her exercise routine. Catching the look on her face, I knew she would have preferred to be on the balcony watching the dolphins or rambling through some souvenir shop down the beach. But I had to hand it to her, she was determined to do whatever necessary to get her arm back in shape.
It was after eight when we headed downstairs. Since this walk would be more business than pleasure (I guess exercise can sometimes be called pleasure), I had skipped the usual shorts for a pair of khaki pants and a knit shirt. Jill, who always dressed better than me, wore designer jeans and a white top. I also had on my blue and white Titans cap in consideration of the
Florida
sun’s ultra violent rays.
Gulf Sands was a multi-structure complex, with the office located on the ground floor of the building next door. We made our first stop there. Marilou Edens, a tall redhead with a pixyish look and a demeanor to match, stood behind the counter.
“Well, well, the McKenzie clan is back,” she said in a teasing way, then sobered as she realized the likely reason for our visit. “I’m sorry. I really hate what happened to that Gannon fellow. I know he was a friend of yours.”
I nodded. “He was a fine young man, the son of our best friends. Did you go with the Sergeant to our condo Saturday?”
“I sure did. Is everything all right?”
“No problem. We were just wondering if he was by himself or if there was another officer with him?”
“He was alone. I went in with him. He just looked around, didn’t bother anything, as best as I could tell.”
As I expected, but I felt I had to ask.
“Fine,” I said. “By chance has anyone turned up a key to our unit? The one Tim Gannon had is missing.”
She looked thoughtful. “Nobody’s brought it in here. You think he lost it somewhere? It wasn’t in his car?”
“No, it hasn’t showed up anywhere. I’d appreciate it if you would get Whitley to change the lock on our door.” Whitley was the Gulf Sands maintenance man.
“Sure. I’ll get him onto it this morning. And drop around again while you’re here, okay? You doing all right, Jill?”
“As well as can be expected,” she said. “I had rotator cuff surgery a few weeks ago. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
We left the office and walked across the parking lot, headed toward
Johnson Beach Road
. I had a strong feeling that key could be critical to finding Tim Gannon’s murderer. But I had no idea at the moment where to start looking for it.
14
I could feel another hot day in the making, but as we turned toward the park, a strong easterly breeze fanned our faces, putting a roar in our ears like listening to a conch shell. At least the brisk walk would be pleasant.
We passed more multi-story condo developments on the right and a cluster of wooden houses on the left, odd, boxy structures in weird
Florida
colors. Beyond the houses, white sand lots languished on streets laid out and paved but starkly deserted. When we approached the National Seashore entrance, Tim Gannon’s elegant architectural design rose off to the right like a towering medieval castle, red-tiled turrets jutting into an expanse of blue he had once inhabited as a Navy pilot. We slowed our pace as we spotted the drawbridge balcony hanging down like a fallen exclamation point, a crude metaphor for the crashing end to Tim’s dreams.
As we walked into the Seashore, Jill glanced around at the metal pipe gate that had been swung to the side.
OPEN TO PUBLIC
was lettered beside a red stop sign.
“How did Tim get his car through here in the middle of the night?” she asked.
I looked at the sign and at the large locks that hung from the end of the gate. “Since that Blazer didn’t have wings, I guess that’s a question we’ll have to ask.”
The roadway split around the small park entrance building, and I noted the cameras aimed to each side. I flashed our Golden Age Passport for the ranger at the window and got a wave and a “Good morning.”
We walked past dunes covered with scrubby pine, yaupon bushes heavy with clusters of red berries, golden aster, rapier-sharp spines of palmetto and the aromatic evergreen rosemary. As we approached the parking area, the soaring concrete pylons of the Star Pavilion, used for picnics, loomed off to the right above the beach. A string of gray wooden buildings with sloping roofs angled away from it. A white car with green stripes and blue lights was parked beside one of the structures.
I knew the car belonged to the Park Service’s law enforcement division, but I had never met the ranger who drove it. We found him standing in a breezeway between two buildings. He was short and athletic looking, curly black hair, probably late twenties. He wore forest green shorts with a pistol belt and side arm, high-top shoes and a gray shirt on which were pinned a gold badge and a name plate that said
ALVAREZ
. The name and dark skin indicated Cuban or Mexican.
“Greg McKenzie,” I said, extending my hand. “This is my wife, Jill.”
The ranger smiled as we shook hands. “Ricky Alvarez. Where are you from?”
“
Nashville
,
Tennessee
.” I never say Hermitage outside the
Nashville
area, since few people would be familiar with it. “We’re friends of Sam and Wilma Gannon, parents of the young man who was found shot around here Saturday morning.”
Alvarez’ face sobered. “That was a bad scene. Give your friends my condolences.”
“Will do. Actually, his dad asked me to look into what happened. I’m a retired agent with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations.”
“I don’t know what I can tell you, other than he was found in his car on the road over toward the boat launch. He was dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
A flock of sea gulls flapped and squawked past us like a bunch of white-feathered rowdies having a serious disagreement. I tried to sound a bit more reasonable. “That’s the problem I’m looking into. The self-inflicted part. Tim’s parents don’t believe he would have committed suicide, and I’ve got some serious reservations. Would you mind showing us where it happened?”
“Not at all. But I think you’ll have a real problem trying to find some other explanation for his death. The Medical Examiner ruled it suicide, and Sergeant Payne of the sheriff’s office was quite positive about it.”
“We’ve already spoken with Deputy Payne,” Jill said, a bit tartly. “We’re well aware of his predilection toward suicide.”