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  The Marathon Murders

  Greg McKenzie Mystery No. 4

  Chester D. Campbell

  © 2008 by Chester D. Campbell

  Night Shadows Press. LLC

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Chester D. Campbell

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  About the Author

  Also by Chester D. Campbell

  Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy:

  The Poksu Conspiracy (2)

  Beware the Jabberwock (1)

  Greg McKenzie Mysteries:

  A Sporting Murder(4)

  Deadly Illusions (3)

  Designed to Kill (2)

  Secret of the Scroll (1)

  Sid Chance Mysteries:

  The Good, The Bad and The Murderous (2)

  The Surest Poison (1)

  Chapter 1

  I never imagined how much destruction a ninety-year-old car could cause until I got involved with the Marathon Motor Works case. I had tackled my share of strange investigations over the years, but this one had more twists and turns than a Tennessee mountain road. It rumbled onto the scene one scorching August afternoon when digital signs above Nashville’s major highways warned of dangerous air quality, a circumstance the TV weather folks insisted senior citizens and children should beware of. That seniors tag included Jill and me, of course, though we had little time to worry about it after the phone rang.

  “McKenzie Investigations,” I answered. “Greg McKenzie speaking.”

  “Retired Lieutenant Colonel Greg McKenzie?” asked a voice that resonated from somewhere in my past.

  I hesitated. “That would be me. Who’s this?”

  “Colonel Warren Jarvis.”

  A flood of images played out on my internal memory screen as I glanced at Jill sitting behind her desk. “Did you finish your tour in Israel, Colonel?”

  “I did. And you’re a private eye now. I thought this had to be you.”

  “Jill and I have been in business about eight months. Retirement turned out to be a pain in the butt. Are you in Nashville?”

  “Right. I was on my way to Arnold Air Force Base for a speech when I got sidetracked. It’s a bit of a complicated story. And a rather puzzling one, I might add. We may need your services.”

  “We?”

  “Remember my telling you about a lady named Abby Farrell, who I worked with on the Raptor Project?”

  “The lady who disappeared? Don’t tell me you finally found her?”

  “Yesterday. Can we come over and talk?”

  Thirty minutes later, we met the elusive Miss Farrell at our less-than-sumptuous office suite in a suburban shopping center (for “suite,” think former beauty shop). Only it wasn’t Miss Farrell now.

  “Jill and Greg McKenzie,” said a smiling Warren Jarvis, “meet Kelli—spelled with an i—Kane. And that’s K-A-N-E.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kelli-with-an-i,” I said, shaking her hand.

  She gave me an indulgent grin. “My pleasure, I’m sure.”

  Jill invited them to occupy the client chairs that faced our twin desks. Dressed in trim designer jeans and a white shirt, Kelli Kane moved with the easy grace of someone accustomed to traveling in sophisticated circles. Long black tresses accompanied a pleasant smile accented by hazel eyes that had a striking starburst effect. I guessed her age at early to mid-forties. That made her at least twenty years younger than Jill or me. On the outside, she had the look of a successful businesswoman on a relaxing vacation. My sixth sense told me there was a lot more going on inside.

  I turned to Jarvis, a handsome man who made no attempt to hide that precursor of aging, gray around the temples. “After what you did for us in Israel, Warren, we could hardly refuse our help.”

  “We’re not looking for charity, Greg.”

  “Point taken. So what’s the problem? I hope it isn’t too serious.”

  He glanced at Kelli. “That remains to be seen. It could involve a ninety-year-old murder.”

  “Ninety?” Jill’s brown eyes sprang open wide. “Wow, talk about your cold cases.”

  Jarvis shifted in his chair. “True. But it appears to be heating up.”

  Kelli spoke, her expression clouded. “Before we go any further, we need to agree on some ground rules.”

  As a retired agent with the Air Force’s Office of Special Investigations, I could write a book on dealing with confidential sources. Considering Colonel Jarvis’s earlier description of Abby as having apparently operated under deep cover, I wasn’t surprised at her conditional response.

  “I’ve never been a big fan of rules,” I said. “But let’s see if we can live with yours.”

  “Warren has told me about his previous conversation with you. Forget Abby Farrell. She no longer exists. That’s really all you need to know of my background. Kelli Kane is the name I was born with in Seattle forty-plus years ago. And that’s a fact.”

  Seeing the perplexed look on my wife’s face, I smiled. “My partner doesn’t understand these things. I’ll explain it later.”

  Jill’s eyes narrowed. “That would be appreciated.”

  “Now, you or the colonel needs to tell us what this is all about, and how we might be able to help.”

  Kelli crossed her legs, folding strong, slim hands over one knee. “When I spoke with my grandfather a few days ago, he asked if I could come to Nashville. He was scheduled to meet with a man named Pierce Bradley, a construction supervisor who related a rather strange story on the phone. Grandpa wanted me there to hear all the details when they met.”

  Bradley, she related, was job foreman for a contractor involved in renovating an old brick building near downtown Nashville that had once housed Marathon Motor Works. Bradley had a bundle of papers that contained the name of Kelli’s great-great-grandfather, Sydney Liggett, who was Marathon’s assistant treasurer. A carpenter discovered them stashed behind the paneling of an old wall he was restoring.

  The foreman thumbed through the papers and found they were Marathon Motors records dated in 1914. A handwritten note attached indicated Liggett planned to turn them ove
r to the District Attorney. An enterprising fellow, Bradley made a few calls in the business community and learned that Sydney Liggett’s grandson, Arthur Liggett, had been admitted recently to a nursing home on the northeast side of town.

  “Your grandfather is Arthur Liggett?” I asked.

  “Yes. I had been out of the country and wasn’t aware he’d gone into the nursing home. He’s eighty-four.”

  Jill donned a sympathetic frown. “Was it the result of an illness?”

  “No, though he has emphysema.”

  “So why the nursing home?” I asked.

  “He fell at home and fractured his leg in a couple of places. He’s coming along. I think he’ll make it okay, but it will take a while. I had just completed an assignment and was ready to take some accrued leave when I called to check on him. That’s when he told me about Mr. Bradley.”

  I turned to Jarvis. “What’s the deal on this ninety-year-old murder, Warren?”

  “Sydney Liggett disappeared around the time that note was written.” A trim, muscular man still capable of handling the controls of the Air Force’s hottest jet fighters, Jarvis squared his jaw. “They accused him of running off with some company funds.”

  “Did he ever turn up?”

  “They found him five years later . . . dead,” Kelli said. “Grandpa says the family never believed he took any money or left of his own volition.”

  It had the sound of a tragic story, but I didn’t see where Jill and I fit in. “Have you talked with Mr. Bradley?”

  A grim look crossed Kelli’s face. “We were supposed to meet with him last night. He didn’t show.”

  “Did he give any reason why?”

  Jarvis tapped his fingertips. “We haven’t been able to locate him.”

  “If he’s a supervisor, you’d think he would be on the job.”

  “You would think so, but they haven’t heard from him over at the Marathon project. They say he doesn’t show up there every day, but he hasn’t been by the contractor’s office, either.”

  “Does he have a wife?” Jill asked.

  Kelli opened her handbag and pulled out a cigarette pack. “Mind if I smoke?”

  Jill gave her a polite smile. “We’d rather you didn’t.”

  Jarvis looked at me and grinned. “Did your wife prod you back off the cancer sticks?”

  “She prodded with a vengeance. I found it pretty tough at the start, but I gritted my teeth and hung in there. Regarding this Mr. Bradley, did you make an effort to check with his family?”

  “He’s a single man,” Kelli said. “Lives alone over in another county.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Jarvis said. “We don’t have a lot of time. We want to hire you to find him and recover those papers.”

  Kelli stuck the cigarettes back in her bag and dropped it to the floor with a pronounced clunk. I took that to mean she wasn’t too thrilled with the house rules. But she hid it well as she spoke in an impassioned voice.

  “My grandfather thinks those papers may provide the proof that Sydney Liggett was no embezzler. They could show he was framed, possibly murdered. Grandpa feels the erroneous allegations have left a permanent stain on the family name, one that should have been erased long ago. This is very important to him. He’s in poor health. I want to do what he’d do if he could. I have some investigative talents, and I’ll do whatever you’d like me to. But this is your territory. I’m sure you can do the job much better and much quicker.”

  I hoped she was right on both counts. From her description, it sounded like a no-brainer. I had a bad feeling, though. Brush aside something that looked no more complicated than a twist of rope, and the next thing you knew it could pop up as a coiled snake and take a bite out of your behind.

  But we owed Warren Jarvis. Whatever it took, I was determined to track down those errant records.

  Chapter 2

  After Jarvis and Kelli left for the nursing home, Jill pulled her chair over to my desk. “I don’t suppose the police would consider Mr. Bradley a missing person,” she said.

  “You don’t suppose correctly.”

  “So what happened?”

  “It’s a nice Tuesday afternoon in August. He probably went fishing.”

  “That’s not what happened to me two years ago.”

  “True.” No way I could forget that. “But I found out pretty quickly you’d been kidnapped. Until we get some positive evidence that it’s otherwise, we have to assume Mr. Bradley, for whatever reason, simply chose not to keep an appointment.”

  “So how do we find him, boss?”

  That “boss” bit was delivered tongue-in-cheek. Although Jill held a license as an apprentice investigator under my supervision, she considered herself a full partner in the firm. Which she was, of course, though I sometimes wondered why I let her talk me into pursuing this wacky profession in a partnership. Anyway, I suppose you could say I qualified as the lead investigator on this case.

  “We start with Mr. Bradley’s boss. Where are your notes with the contractor’s name?”

  After consulting the notes, I called Allied Construction and got the owner’s secretary, a Mrs. Nelson. Her voice reminded me of my mother’s, laced with overtones of patience and tolerance. When I explained my problem, she gave a musical laugh.

  “I’m not all that surprised. His transportation probably played out on him. Pierce Bradley is a stubborn young man. He insists on driving an antique Jeep.”

  “An old Cherokee?” That’s the Jeep I had driven the past few years.

  “Heavens, no. It’s a real Jeep. You know, that military color.”

  “Olive drab.”

  “That’s it. Looks like surplus from some ancient war.”

  I knew about ancient wars, too, having served an Air Force tour in Vietnam. “Does it break down often?”

  “I wouldn’t say often. But a lot oftener than he’d like, I’m sure.”

  “I’ve had experience with Jeeps like that. Where does Bradley live?”

  “In Walnut Grove. It’s a wide spot in the road up in Trousdale County, about forty miles northeast of Nashville. I think he’d like to move down here, but he’s got some problems. Would you like his phone numbers?”

  “Sure.”

  She gave me both home and cell numbers. I thanked her and turned to Jill. “Mr. Bradley probably had car trouble. He drives what sounds like a Vietnam-era model of what Jeep now calls a Wrangler.”

  She fixed me with a wary frown. “Why didn’t he call and tell somebody?”

  Good point, but I played devil’s advocate. “If he didn’t have anything pressing, he probably didn’t feel it necessary.”

  “I heard you repeating phone numbers. We should try calling him, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Shall we divvy up?”

  “You try at home. I’ll try the cell.”

  We were big on serendipity, economy of effort, all that good organizational stuff.

  Neither of us got an answer, which was troubling. We left messages on both phones to call us, regardless of the hour.

  It was almost time to close shop when Jarvis called back.

  “Having any luck?”

  “Not so far. How’s Mr. Liggett?”

  “He’s doing fairly well, but the pain medication leaves him a little confused at times. I think it would be profitable for you to come over and hear his story, though.”

  “And you want him to see that we’re on the job.”

  “Might improve his outlook.”

  “When is a good time for us to make our appearance?”

  “He’s eating supper now.”

  “Why don’t Jill and I get a bite, then we’ll drop by.”

  “Sounds good. Kelli and I’ll be here. I don’t have to be down at Arnold for my talk until in the morning.”

  Jarvis’s current assignment was with the Defense Intelligence Agency at the Pentagon. He had flown into Nashville to rent a car en route to Arnold Air Force Base near Tullahoma, sevent
y-five miles to the south. He planned to brief delegates attending a conference at Arnold Engineering Development Center, the Air Force’s big supersonic wind tunnel facility capable of testing most anything that flew, on the situation in the Middle East.

  Our storefront office in a suburban strip center had acquired a little more dignity since we’d covered the plate glass windows with a mural depicting the Gardens of Versailles. Quite a step up for an ex-beauty salon. Being the daughter of a symphony violinist, Jill had insisted on a classical look. That, however, marked the extent of our elegance. The rest was strictly utilitarian, more in tune with my Scottish roots—a couple of green metal filing cabinets, a well-stocked bookshelf, a paper shredder, and a table with printer, fax, copier, and a small TV.

  I had found the location ideal for a guy who likes to eat, being convenient to numerous restaurants. We stopped at a nearby ribs place and ordered a pile of food that would embarrass a porker. I had just cleaned the last bone of its barbeque sauce-slathered meat when Jill gave me her be-prepared-to-duck look.

  “After eating all that, you’d better be ready to march in the morning, Colonel McKenzie. Considering what you put away, you may have a stomach cramp, but that won’t work as an excuse.”

  Most mornings we trekked the neighborhood on a two-mile jaunt before breakfast. We’d shower and eat and head for the office around eight. This morning I had begged off walking because of a leg cramp.

  “Okay, babe,” I said. “I’ll be ready. I guar-ahn-tee it. You can cancel the whip-cracking routine.”

  My bride of nearly forty years had become a firm taskmaster of late when it came to my maintaining a healthy lifestyle. I tend to gravitate to what is politely called hefty. She not always politely reminds me to back away from the table.

  Afternoon rush hour traffic had subsided, although a conglomeration of cars and trucks cluttered Old Hickory Boulevard as we took the circumferential highway to the north. It led past President Andrew Jackson’s restored Hermitage mansion, for which our community was named, through an area called Old Hickory, another Jacksonian reference, and the tiny incorporated village of Lakewood. The traffic slowed to a decent 45 miles per hour there, thanks to its reputation as a speed trap.