Designed to Kill (22 page)
Interesting. I wondered if Evan Baucus was sunning himself in the
Caribbean
, or if he was being skewered on a tropical grill because of the accident.
“What can you tell me about the president, Mr. Baucus?” I asked.
Quinn swiveled around in his chair and leaned his arms on the desk. “He’s been on the coast for three or four years now. Was originally from out in
California
.
Los Angeles
, I believe. He’s full of big ideas. Quite a talker. I’ll have to say he’s been good for
Biloxi
. Patron of the arts and all, you know. Generous with the charities.”
I consulted the brochure again. “Says here he was formerly involved in a venture capital firm and was a residential real estate developer.”
“That was apparently in
California
, not around here.”
“Is he married?”
“About two years ago he married a local girl, Greta Teeter. She’s the daughter of Harrison County Commissioner Art Savage.”
I gave him a questioning look. “I thought you said her name was Teeter?”
“She was previously married to a local boy named Teeter. He was a cocky little cuss who wasted all his time and money racing stock cars. When he started dipping into her cash, she threw him out. Literally, I understand.”
“Sounds resourceful,” I said, grinning.
“Greta is only about thirty, half the age of Evan Baucus. Good looking girl.” His smile held a touch of wickedness. “She likes to play the dumb blonde, but I don’t believe it. Her daddy’s a smooth-talking old country boy with good connections. Some folks think she just married Baucus to improve her lot.” He gave a short chuckle. “She did that.”
I studied the picture in the brochure for a moment, then held it up for Quinn. “Looks like he has a great suntan. Is he a big golfer?”
“You’d think he was, or a tennis player. But I’ve never run into him around the courses or on the courts. Maybe he spends a lot of time in his back yard. He bought a nice old house on the beach highway west of town. Has some really gorgeous flowers out back. I’ve been there to some of his parties.”
A clock on the wall indicated closing time was approaching, and I figured we had taken enough of Mr. Quinn’s time. I thanked him and Jill and I headed back out to the street. She looked around, grinning.
“The
Cayman Islands
. Shouldn’t we pay him a visit down there?”
“Sorry, babe,” I said. “We might not make it back for your Friday therapy appointment.”
“Killjoy.” She gave me a playful punch in the ribs.
I checked my watch.
. “Let’s head back to the hotel, get a bite to eat and hit the slots.”
“Now you’re talking my game.” She linked her arm in mine as we started for the Jeep.
———
We had just reached the hotel when my cell phone rang. A
New Orleans
number showed on the ID screen. I punched the
TALK
button and answered.
“Is this Mr. McKenzie?” a high-pitched voice asked.
“Right. Mr. O’Keefe?”
“That’s me, lad. Patrick O’Keefe. What’s so urgent? You sounded as mysterious as my parish priest.”
And Patrick O’Keefe sounded as if he could be an Irish tenor. “Thanks for returning my call. I was trying to locate Oliver O’Keefe and I wondered if you might be related?”
“Oh yes, quite related. Ollie is my son.”
“Would he be there, by chance?”
“No. I see you’re calling from
Nashville
. He was to have left there Sunday, but he hasn’t made his appearance here as yet. I don’t know where he could be. Dallying around, I suspect.”
“Well, I need to talk to him urgently.”
“What about?”
“I’m afraid it’s rather confidential, Mr. O’Keefe. Incidentally, I come from
Nashville
, but I’m presently in
Mississippi
. You have my cell phone number. I’d appreciate your having him call me as soon as he gets there.”
Mr. O’Keefe promised he would.
———
We strolled into the casino around
. The place was lively but, with row after row of slots, there was probably room for a few hundred other players. The hum of stair-step musical notes coming from the machines, the ding-ding-ding of wins being racked up, and the clatter of coins dropping into the trays created a constant din that left Jill and me raising our voices as we walked along. Colorful neon displays touting heavy progressive jackpots topped clusters of slots. Some machines featured wheels overhead that occasionally spun around, giving a few lucky souls a fresh supply of coins, or tokens for dollar and up amounts.
In the center of the long room, small groups of players were gathered around the tables, where dealers in black pants, white shirts with wingtip collars and black bow ties doled out cards, raked in the dice, or spun roulette wheels. Jill and I looked around in every direction but saw nothing of anyone resembling Claude Detrich. We had just sat down at adjacent half-dollar Blazing Sevens machines when my cell phone rang.
“Win a bundle,” I said. “I’ll take this over near the restroom where I can hear.”
I hurried across to the alcove marked
MEN
, punched the button and said hello. When the caller asked for Mr. McKenzie, my pulse kicked up a notch. Was this Ollie O’Keefe? In my rush I hadn’t checked the ID.
“This is Mr. McKenzie,” I said.
“Sergeant Upton here,
Mobile County
,
Alabama
Sheriff’s Office. I understand you’ve been looking for Oliver O’Keefe. Can I ask you why?”
I frowned, confused. “I don’t mind telling you, Sergeant, but what the devil brought this on?”
“Then tell me, okay?”
“Oliver O’Keefe quit his job as draftsman with a
Nashville
firm last week. About the time he left, they discovered some plans were missing. I wanted to ask him about it.”
“Was he suspected of taking the plans?”
“That’s a good possibility.”
“Well, I’m afraid he won’t be answering any questions,” said Sergeant Upton. “His body was found this afternoon on the shore near
Fort
Gaines
on
Dauphin
Island
. He appeared to have drowned, but his neck was broken also.”
27
Jill swiveled in her chair as the machine noisily counted off a win of eighty coins. The look on her face, though, had shifted from pleasure to pure dismay.
“His neck was broken?”
“Right,” I said. “They found his car in another part of the island. They’re waiting for the autopsy to decide exactly what happened.”
“Do they suspect foul play?”
“They consider it a definite possibility. I asked the sergeant if they found any plans in his car. They didn’t.”
We had no time to discuss young O’Keefe’s death any further. As I looked off toward the section of the casino that housed the high-ticket slots, I saw a big man lumbering along dressed in a bright red shirt and blue jeans. I recognized Detrich immediately, though he appeared to be cultivating a new feature I hadn’t heard mentioned before—a mustache that ended at a thin line of beard, making a hairy full circle from his upper lip around his chin.
“There’s our man,” I said. “Do you want to keep on playing while I go approach him?”
She pressed the button to cash out, and coins began clattering into the tray. “Let me collect my payoff and I’ll go with you. You may need a witness if things get out of hand.”
I grinned. “I’m the cowardly lion. If things get out of hand, I’ll run.”
“Yeah. I know how you run. In
Israel
it almost cost you your life. I’m going with you.”
Jill toted her plastic can full of half dollars as we walked toward the row of machines where Detrich sat in front of a slot labeled $10. I noticed he had eighty tokens showing in the credit window. Unlike us peons, who rarely patronized even the dollar machines, he obviously was a high roller.
I sat down at the machine next to him and looked around. “I hope this is your lucky night, Mr. Detrich.”
He glanced over at me, frowning. “Do I know you?”
“Not until now,” I said, smiling. “My name is Greg McKenzie. I’m an investigator. I’ve been asked to look into that accident at The Sand Castle. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Here at the casino?”
I shrugged. “That’s where we are.”
He grunted, then asked, “Got some identification?”
I pulled out my billfold and showed him my military ID. Behind the window across from it was a bronze coin with the OSI insignia and
SPECIAL AGENT
at the top. “I’m a retired special agent in charge with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. This isn’t an official inquiry, Mr. Detrich. I’m making it on behalf of a close friend.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s his interest? He own one of the condo units?”
“I’d rather not say just yet.”
“You wouldn’t, huh? What sort of questions you got?”
“I understand the accident was caused by the use of rebars too small to carry the load and concrete of insufficient strength.”
“You been talking to the county building inspector?” he asked.
“I’ve talked to a number of people. They seem to agree on the basic cause.”
“They’re probably right.”
“I wondered why you used the particular rebars and concrete you did?”
“Jesus...that’s what the damn plans called for.” The way his nose flared reminded me of a snorting bull.
“Were the plans you worked with an original or a copy?”
“A copy.”
“A copy of what?”
“They were a copy of the plans Tim Gannon gave to Evan Baucus. What do you think? Damn, you ask stupid questions.”
A short-skirted waitress holding a small round tray stuck her smiling face between Detrich and me. “Would you gentlemen like something to drink?”