Curse of the Jade Lily (7 page)

“Still, they might call.”

“They might. Like I said, it depends on how greedy they are.”

“Mr. Donatucci,” Fiegen said. “What is your opinion?”

Donatucci tore his gaze from the painting that had so mesmerized him for the length of the meeting. “They’ll go forward with the exchange,” he said.

“What makes you think so?” I asked.

“It’s what they do for a living.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way, although he was probably right. This was their job.

“I bet they have more guts than you do, McKenzie,” Anderson said.

“In that case, you’re all set,” I said. “If the thieves, the killers, call back asking for their money, you can deliver it. Whaddaya say, Derek?”

Derek didn’t say.

*   *   *

I was sitting at the bar at Rickie’s. Nina was sitting next to me. She was drinking coffee, so I did, too.

“How did it go last night?” I asked.

Nina yawned. When she finished, she said, “They said they saw and felt spiritual energy. Whether or not they captured any of that energy on camera or their audio files remains to be seen. They also claim there were noises and objects moving on the stage upstairs.”

“Did they get that on film?”

“Who knows?” Nina started to laugh. “It’s all so silly.” She rested her head on the bar top.

“At least these guys seemed to be serious ghost hunters, if there is such a thing,” I said. “Not like those nitwits on the Travel Channel that mock the ghosts, call them names, and then squeal like little girls on a backyard sleepover whenever anything happens.”

Nina’s head came up in a hurry. “You watch these shows?” she said.

“I might have caught an episode or two.”

Nina whacked me in the arm. “You watch this stuff, you like this stuff, and you left me alone with those lunatics?” She whacked me again. “What kind of boyfriend are you?”

“The hockey game was on.”

She whacked me again.

“I don’t believe it,” she said.

“I could come over tonight…”

“Forget it. Between these people and getting Rickie off, I’ve had like an hour’s sleep. Besides, what about your Jade Lily?”

“I decided not to get involved in that mess.”

“You’re not going after it?”

I explained about seeing Tarpley’s body in the snow.

“The Lily can curse somebody else,” I said. “I wash my hands of it.”

“Good for you, McKenzie.” She whacked me again, only this time not so hard. “My little boy is growing up.”

“Speaking of growing up. About tonight…”

“I am going home. Alone. I’m sure you can find a hockey or basketball game that’ll amuse you.”

*   *   *

I tried to explain to Nina that I hadn’t had much sleep the previous night either, but she wasn’t buying it. So I drove home wondering if there was indeed a hockey game on that night.

I live in Falcon Heights, a first ring suburb of St. Paul, my hometown. My house is located on Hoyt Avenue, a long pass from the St. Paul campus of the University of Minnesota. There is always traffic on Cleveland Avenue, the street that borders the campus, so I didn’t notice the police car that followed me off Cleveland onto Hoyt until its lights started flashing. My first impulse was to ask myself what I had done wrong—was I speeding, did I turn without signaling? Then I noticed that it was a Minneapolis police car far out of its jurisdiction. Whatever way I was driving was none of his damn business, so instead of stopping like a good and proper citizen, I continued along the avenue until I reached my driveway and pulled in. The squad car parked at the mouth of the driveway, blocking my escape. I shut down the Jeep Cherokee and stepped out while the cop left his car. It was the same police officer who had fetched me the night before. He called my name.

“Ahh, c’mon,” I said.

“Lieutenant Rask wants to see you.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“What now?”

“He didn’t say.”

“The sonuvabitch could have called. He has my phone number.”

“He wanted to make sure you accepted his invitation.”

Oh God,
my inner voice said.
Now what?

*   *   *

This time the officer let me drive myself—but only after I promised I wouldn’t try to flee to Canada. I met him at the Fifth Street entrance of the Minneapolis City Hall, hoping the meeting wouldn’t take longer than the one hour the parking meter allowed. The cop led me down a long marble corridor to room 108, which was actually a suite of offices that served the police department’s Forgery Fraud and Homicide units, among others. The cop opened the door for us. When he did, a woman stepped past him into the corridor. I recognized her instantly.

“Mrs. Tarpley,” I said.

The smile was gone, but her eyes still sparkled as they had in the photograph I saw despite the red, puffy flesh around them. She brought a knuckle to her eye as if to brush away a tear. Her voice was soft and anxious.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

“My name is McKenzie. I work with the museum. I just wanted to say that I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

“They say he stole the Jade Lily from the museum. They say he was murdered for it.” She reached out a hand and rested it on my arm. “Do you believe Patrick stole the Jade Lily?”

Actually, I did. There was no reason to tell the woman that, though, so I hedged my bet.

“It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me,” I said.

She patted my arm, apparently thankful to have an ally.

“They think—the police, they think I had something to do with it, I know,” she told me. “That man, that awful foreigner—he threatened me. Called me names. Said I had the Lily and I should return it to him or he would hurt me.”

“What foreigner?”

“In there.” She gestured with her head toward the office suite. “McKenzie, I don’t know anything about it.”

“I’m sorry.”

I didn’t know what else to say.

The woman nodded and continued down the corridor. I wanted to offer her some comfort. Or at least a ride.
She should have someone to drive her home,
my inner voice said. And she did. Before I could finish my thought, a man with dark hair and a dark complexion—he could have been Hispanic, I decided—rushed to Mrs. Tarpley’s side. He put a comforting arm around her shoulder and led her away. At the same time, Rask’s flunky yanked on my own arm.

*   *   *

I was ushered into a small meeting room that also served as an interrogation room. Lieutenant Rask sat at the head of the table looking angrier than I had ever seen him, which is saying a lot.

“LT,” the officer said, and Rask nodded at him. The officer took that as a sign to depart. As he was leaving the room, shutting the door behind him, Rask said, “This is McKenzie.”

There were two other men in the room, one sitting, one standing, both dressed in suits. The man who was standing was about thirty, with a smooth face and lively eyes. He spoke with a smile in his voice that most men have when talking to attractive women. I found it disconcerting.

“Mr. McKenzie,” he said as he extended his hand. “Thank you for coming. My name is Jonathan Hemsted. I’m with the U.S. State Department.”

The words “State Department” caused me to glance at Rask. He was staring at Hemsted as if he were trying to bend a spoon. After he finished shaking my hand, Hemsted directed me toward the man who was sitting.

“This is Branko Pozderac,” he said. “Mr. Pozderac is a representative of the government of Bosnia and Herzegovina. He is, in fact, a member of the House of Peoples in the Parliamentary Assembly.”

Pozderac was twice as old as Hemsted. The lines across his forehead and around his mouth suggested that he was easily irritated, and I wondered how many flight attendants, hotel clerks, and waiters he’d tried to get fired over the years. I offered him my hand. He glanced at it, then looked away. I didn’t know if it was because I was an American or a commoner, but plainly he was afraid it might be catching.

“Is this the man who threatens grieving widows?” I asked.

Hot rage infused his eyes. He stood up blinking, and for a moment I was sure he would take a swing at me. However, the rage quickly gave way to contempt, and he returned to his seat with a dismissive grunt.

Yeah, that’s him,
my inner voice said.

“Mr. McKenzie, please,” Hemsted said. “We wish to speak to you of a matter of utmost importance to our government and the government of Bosnia and Herzegovina.”

The entire scene made me nervous, so I did what I always did when I was out of my comfort zone—I shifted into smart-ass mode.

“Do I have time to go out for popcorn?” I asked.

Pozderac gave me a quick glance before finding something else more interesting to stare at. Hemsted continued as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

“I should point out,” he said, “that we have already discussed this matter with your mayor, the chief of police, and Lieutenant Rask.”

I sat next to Rask. I swear to God I could hear him growling. I didn’t think he was growling at me, though, so I ignored him.

“Okay, Jon,” I said. “I’m officially intimidated. What’s going on?”

I spoke to him as if we were equals, two guys chatting in the locker room, taking my time, grinning like I had seen him in the shower and was less than impressed. It was a style of conversation guaranteed to drive self-important people like Hemsted and Pozderac up the wall.

“This is not a matter to be taken lightly, Mr. McKenzie,” Hemsted said.

“I didn’t think it was, especially after you started dropping names and such.”

“McKenzie,” Rask said.

I tilted my head toward him. “Yeah?” I said.

“Listen to the man.”

Oh boy,
my inner voice warned me.
If Rask is intimidated—you are in so much trouble.

I gestured at Hemsted to continue.

He took a deep breath. “It is our understanding that you are currently employed by the City of Lakes Art Museum,” he said. “That you were retained to recover the Jade Lily, which was stolen from the museum two days ago.”

“I was,” I said. “Not anymore.”

“No?”

“The discovery of Patrick Tarpley’s corpse last night soured me on the job.”

Pozderac spoke for the first time. He had an East European accent, a lot of rolling
R
s, a lot of
W
s pronounced as
V
s, and a few missing articles. Yet he had no problem making himself understood.

“You let death of this man frighten you?” he asked. “Are you coward?”

He was the second man who’d questioned my courage that morning, yet I was no more affected by Pozderac’s opinion of me than I had been by Derek Anderson’s.

“Sure, why not?” I said.

“That is, is…”

Pozderac couldn’t think of an English word to describe my crime, so he resorted to a string of adjectives spoken in the Bosnian language—at least I think they were adjectives.

“Mr. McKenzie,” Hemsted said. “You have informed the museum that you will not attempt to recover the Jade Lily from the thieves, is that what you are saying?”

“That is exactly what I am saying.”

“We want you to reconsider your position.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Recovery of the Lily is essential to the continued good relations between the United States and Bosnia and Herzegovina.”

“I have no idea why that would be true,” I said. “Even so, what does it have to do with me?”

“The thieves requested that you act as go-between, is that not correct?”

I turned to look at Rask.

He shook his head slowly. “I didn’t tell them anything,” he said. “They came to me with a complete report and several threats.”

“Threats?” I said.

“Mr. McKenzie,” Hemsted said. “Is it not true that the thieves asked for you?”

“They did.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“It does not matter,” Pozderac said. “You will recover Lily.”

He waved his hand in a way that both announced leadership and dismissed argument. The fact that I continued to argue annoyed him greatly.

“I will?” I said.

“You will recover. You will give to me. It is decided.”

“Wait a minute. Give the Lily to you?”

“Yes,” Hemsted said.

“Let me see if I got this straight. The insurance company is paying approximately one-point-three million for the safe return of the Jade Lily. But you guys, after I make the exchange, you guys expect me to steal the Lily from the insurance company and the museum and give it to you instead. Does that pretty much cover it?”

“The Lily belongs to Bosnia and Herzegovina,” Pozderac said. “It belongs to me.”

“I heard that it rightfully belongs to Tatjana Durakovic; that it was stolen from her during the Yugoslav Wars.”

Pozderac was on his feet in a hurry. He was not quite as enraged as before. Still …

“That is lie,” he said. “That is damnable lie. You will not repeat such lies. Do you understand?

“Kiss my—”

“McKenzie,” Rask shouted. In a lower voice, he said, “McKenzie.”

“Here’s the thing, pal.” I was speaking directly to Pozderac. “I don’t work for the government. I don’t work for the mayor of Minneapolis or the chief of police or Lieutenant Rask. I certainly don’t work for you. So, if you want something from me, ask politely.”

“Mr. McKenzie,” Hemsted said. “There is no need for hostility.”

Yeah, right,
my inner voice said.

“Look, fellas,” I said aloud. “As far as I am concerned, this is a moot point, anyway, for the simple reason that if I do what you request”—I nodded at Lieutenant Rask—“the police are going to lock me up and throw away the key. Isn’t that right, LT?”

He didn’t answer, but I was sure I heard him growl again.

“Arrangements have already been made, Mr. McKenzie,” Hemsted said. “There will be no arrests. As for the insurance company, we will guarantee that it is compensated for its loss.”

“One million two hundred and seventy thousand dollars?” I said. “Can I have that in writing?”

“You’ll need to take my word for it. McKenzie, this conversation never took place.”

“C’mon. If the Lily is so important, why don’t you just go to the museum and collect it; go to whatsisname Gillard and confiscate it, or whatever the hell it is you do when the government wants something that doesn’t belong to it?”