Designed to Kill

The
Marathon
Murders

Deadly Illusions

Secret of the Scroll

Designed to Kill

Copyright 2004 by Chester D.
Campbell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, in any manner whatsoever, without the written permission of the Author.

http://www.chesterdcampbell.com

A Few Words about a Few Things

I have mixed the factual with the fictional in dealing with locations in this book. At Perdido Key, for example, I erected a fifteen-story structure where a smaller one already stands.
 
And the condo called Gulf Sands looks strangely like an actual complex where part of the book was written. Also, I trust the good folks at the church we attend a few times each year while at Perdido Key will forgive my changing their name and building to suit my purposes. Some places, however, are just as depicted, like Doc’s and the Bayside Grill. I didn’t mess much with
Pensacola
, though there are a few places you’d be hard-pressed to find.

My heartfelt thanks go to the many people who helped with information that made this book come to life. Among them were Tom Howell, former Gulf Islands National Seashore ranger; Forensic Investigator John Holland and Dr. Michael E. Berkland, associate medical examiner, Florida District One Medical Examiner’s Office; Sgt. Tony Bain and Investigator Jim Powell, Escambia County Sheriff’s Office; A. Don Mathys, Escambia County Building Inspections Department; my engineering consultants, Jim Campbell, Gordon McClellan and Bob Sylar. I hasten to add any errors that might have crept in are mine alone.

A special thanks to Scottish native Betty McClellan for help with Greg’s background, and a thumbs up as always to the Quill & Dagger Writers Guild in
Madison
,
TN
for their helpful suggestions and support. Bob Middlemiss, editor par excellence, gave another sterling performance smoothing out the rough spots and keeping me out of trouble with the use of firearms. Finally, hugs and kisses to the gal who tries to keep me straight, cheers on the sidelines and sells those books, my wife Sarah.

Prologue

With the darkness and the music, all the laughter and chatter, no one noticed the crack in the concrete.

By the time the party hit its stride shortly before nine, the fifteenth floor penthouse of the new beachfront condominium was as fragrant as a candle shop. Besides an assortment of perfumes, the smells ranged from the fragrance of a gardenia stuck in a shapely guest’s sleek black hair to the tang of a spicy cheese dip. Evan Baucus, The Sand Castle’s developer, took it all in from the place of honor he had staked out for himself at the center of the crowded parlor. His wife Greta, blonde, half his age, stood at his side. She welcomed the guests with a slender hand and a deceptively naïve smile. What they noticed most about her was a Dolly Parton profile.

Among those invited were several dignitaries from the
Pensacola
area, a scattering of prospects, people who had bought condos in the building, local real estate brokers and agents, and several others involved in the venture, including General Contractor Claude Detrich and Architect/Engineer Tim Gannon.

It was October, a Friday, the evening still quite warm. A breeze blowing off the
Gulf of Mexico
fluttered past red damask draperies flanking the French doors that led to the balcony. Gannon stood alone near the arched entrance off the carpeted elevator foyer, a solemn figure dressed in tan gabardine slacks, yellow sport shirt, open collar, a lightweight blue blazer topping off the outfit. Having arrived late, he glanced about with a detached look.

Considering the enormous amount of money at stake and the snail pace of sales, Tim thought the developer should have been a bit uneasy. If he was, he hid it well as he glad-handed a tall, thin man with a stubby beard. Baucus had a stocky frame clad in a steel gray suit. Dapper was the only word to describe him, from the well-groomed brown hair, every strand in place, to the full but neatly trimmed mustache and the mirror shine on the black designer shoes.

Claude Detrich strolled over, a beer clutched in one beefy hand. He nudged Tim’s shoulder with a denim-covered elbow. “Looks like Evan’s kissin’ a little ass with the commissioner,” Detrich said with a chuckle.

The contractor was a hulk of a man proportioned like a pro wrestler. He had black, bristly hair he kept cut short and gray eyes deep-set beneath heavy brows. The result was almost a Frankenstein’s monster look, which fit a man with the finesse of an oilfield roustabout and the reputation of a brawler.

“Who’s the guy?” Tim asked.

“
Escambia
County
Commissioner Forrest
England
. Ol’ Evan’d like to put him in a three-bedroom unit.”

“I’ll bet he would.”

Perdido Key, the location of Tim’s crowning achievement of design and engineering,
stretched out as a
snake-like finger of sand from below the Pensacola Naval Air Station. The barrier island lay in the southwest corner of
Escambia County
,
Florida
.

With The Sand Castle all but finished, Tim knew he should be celebrating like the others. But for the past few months, he’d had a bad feeling about the project. A feeling he hadn’t been able to shake.

The crack started at one edge of the balcony, where a hurricane that had hit the
Florida
panhandle back in July had weakened the joint not long after the concrete had been poured. Subsequent rains had seeped in, chewing out the sub-structure.

Tall and lean at forty-two, Tim walked across the room with head erect, shoulders square, showing some of the military bearing that was a holdover from his days as a Navy pilot. That had been a long time ago. He was known now for his ability to dream in the abstract, then shift his focus to apply bold concepts of space and aesthetics with engineering precision.

It wasn’t design or engineering that concerned him at the moment, however. It was construction. Tim kept his eye on Detrich as the big man with the earrings, the Rolex, the gaudy finger bands and clothes that appeared just off a rack at Goodwill, strode out through the French doors.

Tim saw nearly a dozen people milling around in the light that spilled from inside, talking animatedly and sipping bubbly drinks. The balcony was one of his signature elements, a cantilevered structure that projected out like a drawbridge from an ancient castle entrance. The design included a railing and chains that reached down from the wall as if waiting to pull the bridge up. The chains served no structural purpose, of course. The balcony’s stability stemmed from the steel reinforcing bars buried in the concrete.

Detrich was one of the problems that had led to Tim’s concern over the project. Tim didn’t trust him, didn’t like his tough-guy attitude or his volatile temper. There had been too many requests for changes that could have compromised the structure. Just little stuff that would save money, the contractor claimed. Minor details. Whatever the reasons, Tim didn’t buy them. He and Detrich had almost come to blows once, which Tim knew could have been a painful mismatch.

Tim turned away from the balcony toward one of the bars set up on either side of the large room that was the centerpiece of the penthouse suite. The four-bedroom, four-and-a-half-bath unit carried a price tag of nearly a million dollars. Yet unsold, the unit was fully furnished in Mediterranean décor, thanks to a
Pensacola
furniture store whose name appeared on a small sign.

A keyboard, guitar and bass played
Send in the Clowns
from a mini-stage set between two potted palms. Despite a valiant effort, the combo fought a losing battle. Too many clowns were drowning them out with a confusion of small talk that had risen in volume with the movement of the clock.

As Tim headed for the bar, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Looking around, he saw a handsome couple barely younger than himself. Both were tall and tanned. The man had wavy blond hair and a look that appeared a cross between an impish grin and a sneer. The woman was close enough that Tim could smell the provocative scent of Shalimar. She had brownish-yellow hair and a striking figure accented by a colorful dress that displayed flowers and fish and birds, something that might have been pulled from a collection at Hilo Hattie’s. What she did not wear was a smile.

“Hello, Boz,” Tim said, attempting to appear indifferent. Bosley Farnsworth had been a thorn in his side through much of the construction process. He was the Threshold Inspector, an engineer licensed by the state and hired to oversee the job.

Farnsworth swirled his cocktail glass with one hand and laughed. “Evan Baucus damn sure knows how to throw a party, doesn’t he? Lighten up, Tim. This is the big night. We’ve made it to the climax.”

Farnsworth winked at the woman beside him.

Sherry Hoffman looked across at Tim through intense brown eyes. Her voice hinted of suppressed indignation. “Congratulations. I guess you’ll be going back to
Nashville
to bigger things now.”

———

Out beneath the stars and the soft glow of a rising moon, the music flowing through the doorway changed to a staccato Spanish beat, ratcheting up a few decibels. Two couples began doing a lively imitation of a flamenco dance. As they clapped and stomped, the crack in the balcony widened. No one heard the crunching, grinding sound of the concrete giving way, but the screams of terror that followed sent hairs bristling on the necks of everyone inside.