Curse of the Jade Lily: A McKenzie Novel

by David Housewright

  “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 Rs, a lot of Ws pronounced as Vs, 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?”

  “If we could, we would. Unfortunately, the Lily is in the wind—isn’t that the criminal vernacular for an item that is missing?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Pozderac slowly edged to where I was sitting and looked down at me. “Lily must be returned,” he said. “Immediately. See to it.” He moved to the door, opened it, and stepped out. “See to it,” he repeated over his shoulder.

  I guessed that he was speaking to Hemsted, because the man pulled out a chair and sat at the table directly across from me.

  “McKenzie,” he said. “It greatly distresses me to be forced to speak to you in this manner. I had hoped you would embrace our cause out of a sense of…”

  “Patriotism?”

  “To be blunt, Branko Pozderac is not the first asshole that our government has had to appease in order to keep the peace. I cannot go into details. I can tell you that Bosnia and Herzegovina is made up of three ethnic groups, constituent people they’re called—Bosniaks, Serbs, and Croats—that were happily slaughtering each other not so very long ago. Each group has an equal share in governing the country. As you can imagine, the government is a fragile enterprise at best. So far it works. To keep it working, at least in the short term, means catering to Pozderac. He wants the Lily. He claims it’s a national treasure. We’re going to get it for him.”

  “You mean I’m going to get it for him.”

  “I’m not very good at threatening people,” Hemsted said, “but I can arrange an audit of your tax returns for each of the past seven years and every year from now until you die, at which time I’ll have your estate audited. I can arrange to have your name placed on the Do Not Fly list. I can arrange for you to have problems with your passport, your Social Security, your Medicaid, with any federal program. I can have men dressed in black interview every person you have ever met about your character, your love of country, threats you might have made against the government. I can have you detained and released over and over again as a person of interest in whatever interests Homeland Security at the moment. That’s what I can do legally. Give me time and I’ll think of a lot more.”

  “I get it.”

  “Illegally, well…”

  “I get it.”

  “I can make your life miserable.”

  “You’re mistaken, Jon,” I said. “You are very good at threatening people.”

  “Will you retrieve the Lily for us?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Please do.”

  He smiled then, but there was no joy in it. In fact, I could detect a measure of pain in that smile, the kind of pain that comes from self-knowledge gained at a heavy price, and it occurred to me that Hemsted might have become a prick against his will.

  “I’ll be in touch, McKenzie,” he said.

  He stood and nodded at Rask. “I am sorry about all of this, Lieutenant,” he said. “I truly am.”

  He left the room a moment later. Rask got up and carefully closed the door as if he were fighting the impulse to slam it.

  “Our federal tax dollars at work,” I said.

  * * *

  Rask turned slowly toward me. The scowl on his face reminded me of the Tiger tanks that chewed up Tom Hanks and his men in Saving Private Ryan.

  “Tell me about Tatjana Durakovic,” he said.

  “Didn’t I mention her last night?”

  “It must have slipped your mind. ’Course, you have a history of withholding vital information from the police, don’t you?”

  “I never actually met the woman.”

  “Tell me.”

  I did, giving up Heavenly’s name along the way, recalling our conversation without explaining the details of how we came to have it.

  “You’re saying that this Tatjana is in Ontonagon, Michigan?” Rask said.

  “I’m saying that’s where I was told she was from. I have no idea where she is now or where she was last night when Tarpley was killed. What time was that, by the way?”

  Rask paused for a moment as if he were weighing the consequences of his next statement before he made it.

  “I need a favor,” he said.

  “A favor? From me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I’m not promising anything, but you can always ask, LT.”

  “Call me Clay.”

  That made me pause. I’ve known the man for half a dozen years, and we’ve never had what you might call a warm relationship. Usually it was downright frosty. In any case, he’s never called me by my first name and I’ve never used his.

  “No, LT, I don’t think I can do that.”

  Rask nodded as if I had passed a test. He sat next to me and leaned in. His speech started slow and calm but increased in ferocity toward the end.

  “It took a lot to just sit here and listen to those sonsabitches talk, pushing people around, making demands. Who the hell do they think they are? They come into my house and tell me which homicides I can investigate and which homicides I can’t? In my house? I don’t give a shit what the mayor says. I don’t give a shit what that politician he appointe
d chief of police says, either. Cooperate with federal authorities? If I don’t bend over and kiss my own ass for the FBI or the DEA or those incompetents at Homeland Security, I sure as hell am not going to do it for these miserable bastards. No, no, no.” He held the third “no” like it was the final note in a trumpet concerto. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to investigate this homicide. I’m not going to redline it just because these bastards find it inconvenient. I’m going to discover who killed Patrick Tarpley and why. You’re going to help.”

  “I am?”

  “You’re damn right you are.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because you used to be a cop, McKenzie. Here’s your chance to be a cop again.”

  “Don’t do this to me, LT.”

  “You’re going through with the exchange. If the thieves call back, you make the deal.”

  “You want me to steal the Lily?”

  “What? What are you talking about? Did I say that? Did I say steal the Lily and give it to those assholes? I did not. Give the Lily to the insurance company like you’re supposed to. If those assholes want the whajamacallit so bad, they can go to court like civilized people. But, McKenzie, listen. When you make contact with the artnappers, you need to give me every scrap of information about them that you can. You know what to look for, what to listen for. You know people, too. Don’t look at me like that. The people you know, you can get information that I can’t. You do this for me, McKenzie. Meanwhile, I’ll pursue the investigation on the down low. When I get anything, I’ll tell you. You do the same.”

  Like you would do that, my inner voice said.

  “In that case, when was Tarpley killed?” I asked aloud.

  “The ME fixed the time of death at between one and four A.M. Monday,” Rask said. “He couldn’t narrow it down further because of the extreme cold.”