Curse of the Jade Lily (6 page)

“Here he is, LT,” the officer said.

Rask nodded without looking. A tech holding a small digital camera turned it on me. It was his job to film the crime scene as well as articles of evidence as they were discovered, record the observations of the investigators, and generally keep a time-sensitive log of the proceedings. In the old days they called him the “master note taker.” Nowadays he’s the “photographic log recorder,” not to be confused with the “crime scene photographer,” who was busy taking photos with a 35 mm camera mounted on a tripod. Film might seem old-fashioned, but digital photographs are easy to alter—can you say “Photoshop”?—and rarely are used as evidence in court.

“Name, please,” the recorder said.

“Rushmore McKenzie,” I said. “I’m here at Lieutenant Rask’s insistence.”

Rask pretended not to hear. I wasn’t surprised. I’d had dealings with the lieutenant in the past. We were not friends.

“McKenzie,” someone said.

I turned toward the voice. A man extended his hand. He was tall and good-looking, not unlike Robert Redford in his
Great Gatsby
days, with wisps of blond hair peeking out from under a gray all-wool fedora. He was also wearing a charcoal Westbury overcoat from Brooks Brothers, Italian ankle boots, lambskin gloves, and a white cashmere scarf that nearly covered a tie that looked like it was made of blue silk. All in all, he was the best-dressed cop I had ever seen.

“Lieutenant Scott Noehring,” he said. I shook his hand. “I’m with Forgery Fraud.”

“Hey,” I said.

“Sorry to drag you out on a night as cold as this.” His words rose as a puff of steam and were quickly snatched away by the wind.

“What’s it about?” I asked.

Rask gestured with his chin at a body bag lying in the snow. “Take a look,” he said. There was distrust in his voice, but I didn’t take it personally. That was how he always talked.

I knelt and unzipped the black vinyl bag and peeled back the sides, all my actions duly chronicled by the recorder’s camera. The arch light reflected off the dead man’s pale, frozen face. It was Patrick Tarpley. He was dressed pretty much as he was in his photograph. There was a bullet hole in his throat, and blood had saturated his shirt, tie, suit jacket, and overcoat before his heart had stopped pumping. I pulled the zipper all the way to the end of the bag to get a look at Tarpley’s feet. He was wearing dress shoes.

A dozen thoughts crowded into my brain at once. I’m ashamed to say that none of them had anything to do with Tarpley as a man whose cherished life had been violently ripped away, none had to do with his wife, none asked about his children if he had any, his family, or his friends.

“Do you have a time of death?” I asked.

“Do you?” Rask replied.

What’s that supposed to mean?
my inner voice asked.

I carefully zipped the bag closed and stood facing the lieutenant. I had dressed for the weather—Sorel boots, thick leather coat and hat, warm gloves. Just the same, I said, “Awfully cold to be playing games, LT.”

The recorder stepped back a few feet so he could get both of us in the same shot.

“ME won’t even guess until he gets the body on the table,” Noehring said. “Given the temperature and the vic’s clothing, it’ll take some doing to get a precise time.”

I was astonished to hear someone—anyone—answer for Rask. As it was, Rask gave Noehring a look that could have melted glaciers. If Noehring noticed, he chose to ignore it, another astonishment. I kept pressing to see how much I could get away with.

“Did he return fire?” I asked.

“He had a piece in his inside suit pocket,” Noehring said. “Nine-millimeter S&W. His overcoat was buttoned over it.”

“Any witnesses?”

“None so far.”

“Who discovered the body?”

“Cross-country skier. He deviated from the usual path; otherwise we might not have found him till spring.”

“Any indication that the body was dumped here?”

“No. We have two sets of footprints coming from the direction of the parking lot and one set going back. We’ll know better when we conduct a daylight search in the morning.”

“Vehicles?”

“The parking lot was empty.”

“Someone drove him here, killed him, and drove away,” I said. “Someone he wasn’t afraid of. He didn’t know he was going for a walk in the snow; otherwise he would have dressed for it. Did he have a cell phone?”

“Yes,” Noehring said. “We checked the call log. We’re running the numbers now.”

“Is mine among them?”

The two cops looked at each other and then back at me.

“Should it be?” Rask said.

That made me step backward. Up until that moment, I thought they had dragged Tarpley’s call log, discovered that he had spoken to me earlier, and summoned me to the crime scene to explain myself. Now I wasn’t sure.

“Why am I here?” I asked.

Rask gestured at the body bag again.

“Do you know this man?” he asked.

“We’ve never met.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“You haven’t answered mine yet, either.”

“Should we take this conversation downtown?”

C’mon,
my inner voice said.
Take me downtown? Did you really say that?

“At least we’ll be warmer,” I said. The log recorder was still photographing me. “Would you get that damn camera out of my face?”

“McKenzie…” Rask said.

“Don’t try to intimidate me, Lieutenant.”

“Do you want to see intimidation?” He took a menacing step toward me. “I’ll show you intimidation.”

Noehring cut him off, moving quickly between us, and flashed a full-mouth smile. The light reflecting off his perfect teeth damn near blinded me.

“Can’t we all just get along?” he said.

Let me guess—you’re the good cop.

“Come to think of it,” I said. “Why is the Forgery Fraud Unit involved in a homicide investigation?”

“Lieutenant Rask contacted me.”

“Why?”

“Tarpley was my CI.”

“CI?”

“Confidential informant.”

“I know what it means,” I said. Most CIs are criminals who trade their knowledge of the streets—and their friends—for cash or favors. The French police rely heavily on informants and always have. The Brits do not. U.S. cops used to follow the English system. Now when it comes to criminal investigations, as with most of our problems, we tend to throw money at it. Still, “What would make a guy like Tarpley turn informant?” I asked. “What would he inform on?”

“He was very good at his job,” Noehring said. “He knew as much about what was going on in the art world as anyone who lived between Chicago and the West Coast.”

“You’re telling me he was smarter than the average door shaker.”

“Yes, I am.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question.” I pause for a moment. When no one spoke, I said, “Anyone?”

“He liked girls,” Noehring said.

“Don’t we all?”

“Little girls, preferably between the ages of seven and nine.”

Then I’ll stop feeling sorry for him,
my inner voice said.

Out loud, I said, “You were blackmailing him into giving information.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Noehring said.

“Talk to us,” Rask said.

“I don’t know what to say,” I said. “I don’t even know why I’m here yet.”

“You’re here because of this.”

Rask produced a clear plastic bag. Inside the bag was a small sheet of wrinkled paper ripped from a pocket notebook. Written on the sheet was the name McKenzie.

“We found it stuffed in the outside pocket of his overcoat. Notice the ink?”

The first two letters were printed in vibrant blue, but the ink soon began to fade—the
e
was barely readable.

“You know what it tells me? It tells me it was written by a pen whose ink had frozen. Officer Thoreson? What’s the current temperature?”

“Minus nine, LT,” the log recorder said. ‘The wind chill is around minus twenty.”

“So, McKenzie, no bullshit,” Rask said. “Who would want to kill a man and then stuff your name in his pocket?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said you never met Tarpley, but you knew who he was, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“It’s kind of a long story. Sure you don’t want to go someplace warm?”

Noehring smiled his movie-star smile. Rask folded his arms across his chest. “Out with it,” he said.

I flashed on what the City of Lakes Art Museum executive board of trustees had said earlier about keeping news of the theft secret in order to protect the museum’s reputation. That made me hesitate, but only for a moment.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “have you ever heard of the curse of the Jade Lily?”

FOUR

The room was silent except for the monotonous drumming of Fiegen’s fingers on the tabletop. He and the other members of the museum’s executive board were seated in the same chairs in the museum’s conference room as the day before. This time no one looked happy to be there. Perrin leaned back in her chair, her eyes closed, her head tilted so that her chin was pointed at the ceiling. She looked as if she had aged a decade since I had seen her last. Mr. Donatucci, on the other hand, hadn’t changed at all. He still sat quietly, although this time his gaze was fixed on a large oil painting of what appeared to be Split Rock Lighthouse. A seventeenth-century sailing ship lay just off the shore, and hordes of savage-looking Indians were attacking or greeting it—take your pick—from a dozen canoes. It was impossible, of course, for the lighthouse, ship, and Native Americans to be in the same place on Lake Superior at the same time, but as it had often been pointed out to me, I know nothing about art.

“Mr. McKenzie, I thought we had an understanding,” Fiegen said. “This matter was to be kept strictly confidential.”

“What can I tell you?” I said. “I see a dead body in the snow, I become a regular blabbermouth.”

“Are we facing any liability issues?” asked a member of the board whose name I forgot.

Perrin raised her hand a few inches and then let it drop as if the effort had been too great. “I didn’t get any sleep at all,” she said. “First the police, that rude Lieutenant Rask, then the lawyers, then the police and the lawyers, and then the lawyers again. I asked for discretion. Lieutenant Rask made it clear that the museum’s reputation is the least of his concerns. The police confiscated all of our security footage. They started interviewing our employees this morning.”

“Do the police have any suspects, McKenzie?” Fiegen asked.

“Tarpley’s partners,” I said. “That’s merely speculation on my part, though. Lieutenant Rask does not confide in me.”

“It’s only a matter of time before news of the theft gets out,” Perrin said. “I’ll be sitting down with our PR director following this meeting. The question is, do we want to get out in front of this, make an announcement to the trustees, our membership, the press, or wait until reporters start calling?”

“Wait,” the unidentified trustee said. He spread his hands wide, the palms facing upward. “Who knows? We might get lucky.”

“Define lucky,” Fiegen said.

The trustee shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “We might still recover the Jade Lily,” he said.

Fiegen nodded his head slightly. “That would mollify the situation somewhat,” he said softly. “In fact, news of a major art theft would elevate the museum’s profile, probably even attendance, if”—he emphasized the word—“the Lily is recovered.” In a louder voice he added, “We should hold off on any public announcement. Should members criticize us later, we’ll tell them that we remained silent at the behest of—what was his name, Lieutenant Rask? We’ll insist he asked us to keep quiet about the theft so as not to compromise his investigation.”

I had to smirk at that. The police get blamed for so much bullshit.

“In the meantime, Mr. Gillard must be informed. That cannot wait.”

“I’ll see to it,” Perrin said.

Throughout the conversation, Anderson had been staring at me, a snarl on his lips.

“McKenzie.” He said the word like it was an obscenity.

“Derek.” I tried to match his inflection but failed.

“If you had kept your mouth shut—”

“It’s murder,” I said.

“The whole point of involving you in this matter was to protect the museum from—”

“It’s murder,” I repeated. I thought that should have been enough to explain my actions, only Anderson wasn’t buying it.

“Adverse publicity,” he continued. “Now, thanks to you, we’ll be the laughingstock of the industry.”

I hadn’t thought of art museums and galleries as being “an industry,” yet what else would you call it?

“Don’t blame me, pal,” I said. “I didn’t steal the Lily. I didn’t kill Tarpley.”

“You can fix it.”

“Fix it, how?”

“We must retrieve the Lily. We must.”

“We?”

Perrin opened her eyes and leaned forward. “Mr. McKenzie, we are relying on you,” she said.

“Forget it.”

“McKenzie,” Fiegen said.

“It’s murder, boys and girls, and that’s where I draw the line. I’m not going to get shot for a glorified centerpiece.”

“We need you,” Perrin said.

“No, you don’t. I have no idea why the artnappers picked me, but if I’m not available, they’ll find someone else. That’s assuming they call back. They might not. Hell, if I were them, I’d be on the first stage out of Dodge.”

“You’re a coward,” Anderson said.

Some men, if they called me that, I’d be hurt or angry to the point of reprisal. Anderson wasn’t one of them. I smiled.

“You should see me do the chicken dance,” I said.

“Coward,” he repeated.

Fiegen leaned forward in his seat, effectively inserting himself between Anderson and me. “Do you really believe the thieves will abandon their plan now?” he asked.

“Depends on how greedy they are. Originally, they knew they could depend on your”—I glanced at Perrin—“what did you ask for? Discretion? The thieves were reasonably sure there would be no police involvement, which meant they were relatively safe. The murder of Tarpley brings the cops into it. Possibly they didn’t mean to kill Tarpley. Or maybe they thought his body wouldn’t be discovered until after they completed their business. I can’t say. I can say, however, that suddenly trading the Lily for cash has become a dangerous thing to do—for them and for me. They’d be silly to try it. I’d be even sillier.”