Designed to Kill (39 page)

“Yeah.”

“His dad is chief of the Latent Fingerprint Section of the FBI Identification Division. He told me if I ever needed a favor, just ask. Only trouble is, I won’t be back on base for a little while. Where are you?”

When I told him, he said he wasn’t far away at the Federal Courthouse.

“Okay if I bring the bottle to you there?”

“Bring it on.”

I called for a taxi and walked out in front of the building. Traffic was light along the street as the late morning sun beamed down. Overhead a Navy chopper cruised noisily across the city. The taxi arrived in about ten minutes and drove me to the
Federal
Building
, where I met Red at the U.S. Attorney’s office. Red took the bag and promised to call my cell phone during the afternoon. The cab driver dropped me back at the county building and I returned to the hearing room just in time for the lunch break.

“What happened?” I asked Walt.

He had a disgusted look on his face. “Detrich produced reams of papers that didn’t amount to a hill of beans. Said they showed how he had followed the plans. He told a lot of lies. Like how he had complained to Tim about some of the specs. I wanted to get up and shout it was the other way around.”

“Did they get to Baucus?”

“Yeah. They aren’t finished with him. Won’t get much out of him, though. He told the tale about Ollie O’Keefe stealing his plans. Said there was no way they could have been altered. He kept them in his office until the copies were made for Detrich and Farnsworth. When the questioning got too sharp, the lawyer objected. Said they faced the possibility of lawsuits. Couldn’t talk about a lot of things.”

The nearest eating place was a small sandwich shop that was jammed during the lunch hour. It had a counter with a row of round stools and tables along the wall. A glassed-in area at the end of the counter held containers with chicken salad, ham salad, tuna salad and salads of unknown origin. A mirror ran along the wall behind the counter, with a Pepsi sign in the center that displayed the menu.

When Walt and I finally made it onto the stools, I ordered tuna salad and he asked for hot pastrami. The harried waitress in a green and white uniform, a pencil stuck in her Orphan Annie red hair, frowned.

“We don’t have pastrami, hot or cold. We got what’s on the menu.” She pointed over her shoulder.

Walt shook his head with a grim look. “Ham and cheese.”

She nodded. “You got it.”

While we were waiting, my cell phone rang. I hate when people jabber on their cell phones in restaurants. I didn’t normally carry the thing with me, but too much hung in the balance at this stage. I pulled the phone out and answered.

“Where are you?” Jill asked.

“In a sandwich shop waiting for my tuna salad. Where are you?”

“Just about to leave The Sand Castle. It’s been a revealing trip.”

“Did you come up with something significant?”

“You be the judge. Will the hearing continue after lunch?”

“Right.”

“I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

As we ate, Walt wanted to talk about what was in store for New Horizons Architects and Engineers—they had only a junior architect and no structural engineer now. But I couldn’t carry on an intelligent conversation for puzzling over what Jill could have dug out of Greta Baucus. Could she possibly know something that might put her husband in the area where Tim was shot? That seemed like too much to ask.

The hearing was to resume at
1:30
. Walt and I made it back with about twenty minutes to spare. Jill arrived ten minutes later, a Chessy cat grin on her face. We sat in the back of the hearing room and I prodded her about her visit with Greta Baucus.

“She’s quite a character,” Jill said. “Remember Mr. Quinn telling us he didn’t believe she was as dumb as she let on? Well, she definitely isn’t. You should have heard some of the gossip she told me about the good folks in
Biloxi
. She knows where all the bodies are buried.”

“And what about her hubby?” I asked.

“I got the feeling she’s not too sure about him. He told her he has no close family except for a few cousins in
California
. But he never writes or calls or communicates with them in any way. When she suggested going out there for a visit, he told her in no uncertain terms that he was not interested in going back to
California
.”

“And for good reason,” I said.

I told her what Ted’s contact on the coast had found out about the so-called Evan Baucus.

She smiled. “Greta knows he isn’t all that he claims to be, but she isn’t sure exactly what he is.”

“I’m not either, yet. What other tidbits did she offer?”

“One weird secret, but I’m not really sure what to make of it.”

“A secret?”

“Remember the secret boat house in back of their place in
Biloxi
?”

“Yeah. She tell you what’s in it?”

“A fishing boat.”

That didn’t seem like much of a secret. “Deep sea fishing boat?” I asked.

“Nope. A plain old fishing boat. Probably like those bass boats we see heading for the lakes back home.”

I gave her a baffled look. “What the devil is so secret about a fishing boat?”

“Greta says her husband is a closet fisherman.”

“And what, pray tell, is a closet fisherman?”

“When things get tense, he likes to go fishing by himself to relax and unwind. But he doesn’t want anyone to know. You see, he isn’t interested in big boats or deep-sea fishing. And he’s afraid he’ll be looked down on if it becomes known among his big-shot friends that he’s a man who just likes to go out on the river and catch small game fish. So he keeps his boat locked away and won’t let anyone see it. He takes it out to fishing spots where no one knows him.”

I nodded. “That’s the answer to why he looked so tanned in the Perseid Partners brochure pictures. Quinn told us Baucus didn’t frequent the tennis courts or golf courses. He gets his tan in the fishing boat.”

The chairs were beginning to fill, and Walt came back to warn us the hearing was about to resume.

“Greta said he doesn’t bring his boat to Perdido Key, of course, but he does some fishing here at night.”

That nearly stopped my heart. I stared at Jill. “Did she say where?”

Startled by my reaction, she hesitated, then said, “Just somewhere nearby on the Key.”

“Stay here,” I said. “I need to go use the phone. I have to find Ranger Alvarez.”

“What for?”

“I want to know if Evan Baucus has a Night Owl Pass for the National Seashore.”

50

Out in the corridor, I called Ricky Alvarez’ pager and left my number. The phone beeped about ten minutes later.

“I wondered if you were still around, Mr. McKenzie,” he said. “Have you come up with any answers to your questions?”

“I’m hoping you can help. Are you at
Johnson
Beach
now?”

“No, I’m at the headquarters at Gulf Breeze.”

Gulf Breeze was a small town across the three-mile-long bay bridge from
Pensacola
. A shorter bridge to the south led to
Pensacola
Beach
. Adjacent to Gulf Breeze was Park Headquarters for the Florida District of the Gulf Islands National Seashore.

“As I recall, you keep the list of Night Owl Passes at your
Johnson
Beach
office,” I said.

“That’s right.”

“I need to know if Evan Baucus holds a pass. Will you be going back there this afternoon?”

“Within the next hour or two. I could look it up to be sure, but I don’t recall that name.”

“I’d appreciate it if you would,” I said. “Call and let me know what you find.”

I went back into the hearing room as they were winding down the questioning of Baucus. Jill whispered that she hadn’t heard anything that struck her as significant. When the proceedings ended just before two o’clock, Redding advised that his staff and the engineering firm conducting the investigation would go through all of the testimony and report their findings in a couple of weeks.

Baucus, Detrich and Boz carefully avoided us as they left quickly. Walt made an equally hasty departure, saying he needed to get back to
Nashville
. While walking to the lot where Jill had parked the Camry, I told her about my conversation with Ricky Alvarez.

“And if Baucus has a Night Owl Pass?” she asked.

“Then he knows the combination to the gate lock. He would be familiar with the access road to the boat ramp. He could have driven up the beach and walked across. That piece of information would put us much closer to pinning a murder on him.”

“What next?”

I shrugged. “We head back to Gulf Sands and wait. That’s the hardest part of an investigation.”

We had gone only a few blocks, though, when the cell phone rang. Jill answered it. After listening for a couple of minutes, she turned to me.

“It’s Sherry. She says the tennis center found their records for July fifteenth—they were in the computer. Anyway, Boz was there all afternoon.”

“They’re sure?”

“That’s what she said. You want me to ask again?”

Noting my frown, she asked again. She was quiet for a few moments, then thanked Sherry and ended the call. “Sherry talked to the pro and asked if he was certain about the date. He said he remembered because it was just before he left on vacation. He beat Boz two straight sets that day. Said Boz got so agitated he wouldn’t quit playing until he had won a set.”

I grinned. This was the opening I had been looking for. I pulled into a nearby service station, found a place to park and called Boz’s office. I figured he would head there after he left the hearing.

A rather snappish voice answered. “B. F. Inspections. Farnsworth here.”

“This is Greg McKenzie,” I said. “I need to talk to you right away. I can be there in ten minutes.”

“Forget it, McKenzie. Didn’t the sheriff warn you to stay away from me?”

“I have no intention of harassing you,” I said.

Boz was adamant. “I have nothing to say to you. I can’t tell you any more about Tim Gannon, and I said all I’m going to say about that balcony at the hearing.”

“I think you had better talk to me before I talk to the building inspector,” I said. I spoke slowly and distinctly. “I know where you were the afternoon the balcony was poured.”