Designed to Kill (33 page)
“Tell me about it.”
“So how have you been? Ted Kennerly told me you have a condo down here.”
“Doing fine,” I said, exaggerating a bit. “We have a two-bedroom unit at Gulf Sands on Perdido Key.”
“Hey, you’re practically next door. Do you ever get over this way? Visit the museum, maybe?”
Besides the Blue Angels, Pensacola NAS was home to the National Museum of Naval Aviation, an impressive facility housing restored Navy aircraft from the earliest to the present. “We’ve been over there several times, took the flight line tour and all.”
“Ted told me about some of your problems,” Red said. “Everything going okay now?”
“I’m not sure what he told you, but if you’re referring to that flap with the Metro Nashville Police Department, it’s behind me. Well, almost. A little fallout occasionally comes back to haunt me.” I thought of Lieutenant Cassel’s comment about talking with a friend in
Nashville
.
“We also discussed the Israeli thing,” Red said. “I trust you’ve had no repercussions on that score.”
That caught me by surprise. The few people concerned with that distressing episode, including Ted, had been warned to forget everything that happened. “I’ve had no repercussions, but I’m wondering why Ted would have said anything. That affair was strictly hush-hush, off the record.”
Red laughed. “I brought it up. Turns out I knew a little more than he did. I was over there at the time, investigating an unauthorized transfer of property between some SEALs and an ex-Mossad agent named Zalman.”
“Know the gentleman quite well,” I said. He and his partner were the thugs who had spirited Jill off to Tel Aviv.
“Is your wife with you?” he asked.
“Right. We’re down here doing a little private investigation at the moment. I guess you’ve read about the balcony collapse at The Sand Castle last week, and the supposed suicide of Tim Gannon, the architect-engineer?”
“Yeah. I heard he was a former pilot at the base.”
“His dad is a retired Air Force pilot and a close friend in
Nashville
. Sam Gannon asked me to come down and look into what happened. He doesn’t believe Tim killed himself. And from what I’ve uncovered, neither do I.”
“Interesting. Say, are you doing anything tomorrow afternoon? Maybe we could get together at the Cubi Bar—I presume you’re familiar with the place—and talk about things.”
“Love to. What time?”
“How about
?”
“Fine. Jill will be with me. She’s been helping with this investigation. And since that business in
Israel
, I’ve kept a pretty close watch on her.”
“Don’t blame you.”
“There’s one favor I’d like to ask, Red, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. A couple of guys in a black Cadillac have been harassing us. I’d sure like to know something about them. Could you possibly check out a
Louisiana
license number?”
“No problem. Give it to me and I’ll check the computer.”
He was back in a couple of minutes.
“Looks like you may have stirred up a hornet’s nest, Greg. The car belongs to Bayou Rentals of New Orleans. It’s run by the mob. Their soldiers use the cars for transportation.”
42
Jill had just come in from the bedroom, where she had been slaving away at her exercise routine. I told her what Red Tarkington had said.
“They’re Mafia?”
“Certainly looks that way,” I said, watching her. She took it well.
“Does that mean Detrich has a connection with organized crime?”
“Probably. Maybe they staked him to his ownership position in Tidewater Construction.”
She bit at her lip. “Are we getting in over our head?”
“Not yet,” I said, trying to calm her. But now that I knew the likely identity of the bad guys, I was even more concerned about my lack of resources. These guys were old hands at intimidation. I wasn’t about to let them scare me off, but I was determined to keep Jill from being caught in the crossfire again.
As I thought of one possibility, I went out to the post where my camera was mounted and adjusted the aim to focus on the spot where my Jeep was parked. I wanted to know if anyone tampered with the vehicle. I also gave the Jeep a careful check. For now it was clean.
Back inside, I told Jill what I had decided to do. “We need to check the Key Hole Bar and see if we can find who Detrich was arguing with the night of the accident. Maybe they can give us some idea of what happened to him, where he was headed when he left there.”
“Do you want to go now?”
“No. It would be somebody who works nights. We should probably go around five.”
“Do you think the Cadillac will be waiting for us?” Jill’s eyes showed her concern.
“If it is, at least we’ll be in broad open daylight. We should be back here before dark. I doubt they would try anything with witnesses around.”
I said it for Jill’s benefit, though I wasn’t so sure.
———
When we turned off Johnson Beach Road onto Perdido Key Drive at a quarter till five, I saw the black Cadillac pull out of the parking lot that served a bar and lounge at the intersection.
“Our friends are with us,” I said.
Jill looked around, her mouth tight.
Ignoring the speed limit, I stepped on the accelerator and aired out the Jeep. I sort of hoped some eager cop would pull me over, but, as expected, none showed up. The sun was getting low, but it was still well above the horizon when we swung across the highway into the Key Hole Bar parking area. There were plenty of empty spaces this time of day, but the collection of dusty cars and rusty pickup trucks told me there would be more than a few “good old boys” inside. A critical thought crossed my mind before leaving the Jeep. Carrying firearms into a bar was illegal, but I felt sure that would not deter our pursuers if they were Mafia wiseguys. So I stuck the Beretta in the large inside pocket of my jacket where it would not be so obvious.
The Key Hole was housed in a rambling, ramshackle building that contrasted sharply with the classy condos in the area. We entered through an unpainted wooden door and had to pause for a moment so our eyes could adjust to the light level. Or, more accurately, the darkness level. The haze that hung about the place with an overwhelming smell of tobacco smoke certainly didn’t help. It also didn’t help my lingering memories of puffing a pack a day. Square tables with checkered cloths were squeezed into every inch of space, except for a postage stamp-sized dance floor at one end. A long dark wood bar stood at the other end, with at least a dozen stools lined up in front, most occupied by what appeared to be local workmen rather than vacationers. The walls were plastered with beer and cigarette signs, plus a few murals featuring scantily clad beach beauties.
“Let’s try the bar,” I said.
There were two vacant stools at one end, just beyond a couple of guys with long hair and bushy beards. Their jeans were topped by shirts with rolled up sleeves that exposed tanned, muscular arms decorated with garish tattoos. I took a seat next to one with a skull and crossbones near his shoulder and put Jill on the end. As we sat down, I looked around and spotted two men standing just inside the door. Despite the gloom in the room, I felt certain they were the pair I had met at
Orange
Beach
Thursday night. I decided not to mention it to Jill.
“What’ll it be?” asked a short bartender who hardly looked old enough to drink, much less work in a bar.
“A strawberry daiquiri for me,” Jill said.
“Scotch and soda,” I said.
Glancing around, I saw the two hoods seated at a nearby table. A TV over the bar was blaring away with a football game between the Florida Gators and a team dressed in green with a mascot that looked like a frog. I wasn’t interested in football or frogs, but I figured the noisy commentary would make it unlikely I could be overheard by the mobsters, if that’s what they were.
When the bartender brought our drinks a few minutes later, I asked, “Do you know a regular named Claude Detrich?”
“Big, burly guy with short black hair?”
I nodded.
“I didn’t know his first name was Claude.”
“Were you the one he tangled with around
a week ago?” I asked. “It was the night the balcony fell at The Sand Castle.”
“Naw. I was off that night. Joe’s the one he gave a hard time to. Joe’s a glutton for punishment. Works every weekend.”
“Is he here now?”
He nodded toward the other end of the bar. “That’s him.”
“Ask him if he’d come over for a moment.” I turned the glass with my fingers. “I have a question for him.”
A couple of minutes later, Joe walked up and planted a large pair of dark, hairy hands on the bar in front of me. They looked like what you’d expect on a gorilla in the wild. He was big enough for a gorilla, had dark hair, dark eyes, and a disposition I suspected could be as dark as the rest. I didn’t think he would have taken much guff off of Claude Detrich.
“What about Detrich?” he asked in a gravel voice. “The bastard hasn’t been back since that night. You a friend of his?”
“Hardly,” I said. “I wondered if you knew what he did when he left here, where he might have gone?”
“Got no idea.”
“Did he seem sober enough to drive?”
“Hell no. And I don’t let his kind drive away from here if I can help it. Don’t mind if they kill themselves, but there’s too many innocent people out there. I told him he’d better find somebody to carry him home or I’d call the sheriff and have him followed. One of the deputies had been in here a little while before that.”
“What did Detrich do?” I asked.
“Called some guy to come after him. I had to help him dial.”
“Did you see who came to get him?”
He nodded. “Middle sized guy. Sorta stocky. Brown hair slicked back, mustache.”
“Would that have been a little after twelve-thirty a.m.?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. I wasn’t paying much attention to the time.”
I thanked him and turned to Jill.
“Evan Baucus,” I said.
“Right. That was the call he got after they had gone to bed.”
“So where did he take Mr. Detrich?”
“I vote for home to bed,” Jill said. “If he was too drunk to drive or dial a phone, I hardly think he would have headed off to the National Seashore to meet Tim.”
I finished off my drink. “I’d have to agree. Which leaves Baucus out roaming around some time around one, probably alone. Did he call Tim and arrange the meeting at the Seashore?”
“If he didn’t,” Jill said, “it looks like we’re back to the possibility of suicide. Unless you think Sherry or Boz were lying about what they did that night.”