“Why?”
“Because—because of what happened. I read what happened to Patrick.”
“You thought I killed him, didn’t you? You thought Von hired me to kill her husband.”
Jenny nodded.
“Why did you think that? You’ve known me for so long.”
“Von is a very beautiful woman.”
“So are you, Jen. I didn’t kill for you. In fact, do you remember the first thing I told you when you called about the jewel thief?”
“You said you wouldn’t kill anyone.”
“Didn’t you believe me?”
“I thought maybe Patrick had forced you into it. Oh, I don’t know, McKenzie. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I didn’t shoot him, sweetie.”
“I know that now. I’m sorry I even thought it. Forgive me, McKenzie.”
I waved my hand as if I were shooing away a fly. “You’re forgiven,” I said, “but I don’t want you to tell Von or anyone else that we had this conversation, okay?”
“Okay.”
“One more thing. The guy Von was kissing in the museum. Do you know him? Did he work for the museum?”
“No. I mean, he didn’t actually work for the museum. He was a trustee. A member of the executive board of trustees.”
“Who?”
“Derek Anderson.”
* * *
The Seven and Sevens seemed to be doing a lot more to mask the pain in my shoulder than the over-the-counter drugs I was taking, so I had another. Probably it was a mistake. Afterward, I kissed Jenny good-bye, told her not to be such a stranger, and limped out of the club to where Herzog had parked the Jeep Cherokee. The journey gave me a frightful headache, and when I reached the door of the SUV I had to pause and wait for the fog that invaded my head to clear and the nausea in my stomach to settle. After getting inside and snapping my seat belt into place I said, “Sorry to keep you waiting so long.”
“You look tired,” Herzog said.
I offered him a smile that felt strange on my mouth.
“Is that a polite way of saying I look like shit?” I asked.
“I didn’ want t’ insult you until you paid me the rest of my money.”
“Fair enough.”
“Where to next?”
“Burnsville.”
“Fuckin’ A.”
“You have something against Burnsville?”
“You mean besides it bein’ on t’other side of the planet?”
”I’m not in charge of geography.”
“What’s in Burnsville?”
“A girl. You’ll like her. She’s a babe.”
I had called Mr. Donatucci while I was having my fourth drink in the past ninety minutes, and he gave me Von Tarpley’s address. He asked me what I was doing. I told him I had no idea. He didn’t seem surprised.
“She tall?” Herzog asked. “I like ’em tall.”
“Define tall.”
“Big as me.”
“Nobody’s big as you, Herzy.”
Herzog put the SUV in gear and drove out of the parking lot.
“What’s ’er name?” he asked.
“Von.”
“Von? What kinda name is ’at for a woman?”
“Short for Yvonne, Evonne, something like that. I don’t know, man. I didn’t name her.”
“Gettin’ kinda cranky, ain’tcha, McKenzie?”
“I’m tired. My shoulder is killing me. My ankle is killing me. My head is killing me. My hand aches. A childhood friend thinks I might be a murderer. And I’ve had too much to drink, or not enough, depending on your point of view.”
“Hungry?”
“That, too.”
“I know a place not too far outta the way, you like Puerto Ricans.”
“You’re driving, Herzy.”
* * *
Herzog walked into Tres Hermanas Mexican Restaurant and Grocery and half a dozen voices shouted, “Herzy.” A Hispanic gentleman was sitting at the end of the bar with two friends, all of them wearing hats that declared their affiliation with Pipe Fitters Local 539. He raised his beer glass in greeting, and Herzog gave him a wave in reply. An older woman wearing an apron—I guessed she was one of the Three Sisters—met him at the door and gave him a hug. Herzog hugged her back and called her Rosie, which I later learned was a derivation of Rosita. It reminded me of a scene out of the TV show Cheers, and it caught me by surprise. I knew Herzog to be an exceedingly dangerous man who’s done time for multiple counts of manslaughter, assault, aggravated robbery, and weapons charges. It never occurred to me that he would have friends, that he’d be popular, that he’d like Ella Fitzgerald and baseball and cozy Mexican restaurants that piped mariachi music over invisible speakers and had ESPN Deportes playing on its TVs.
“Estoy feliz de verte, mi amigo,” the woman said. “¿Cómo estás?”
I was surprised again when Herzog answered, “Bueno. ’Stoy bueno. ¿Cómo va el negocio?”
“No me puedo quejar.” The woman gestured at me. “¿Tu amigo?”
Herzog waggled her hand.
“Excúseme, señora, señor,” I said.
Herzog’s eyes widened, and Rosie grinned.
“If I may answer your question, señora, Herzog and I are business associates.” I waved at the restaurant. “I am glad to hear that you’re doing well.”
“I didn’ say that,” Rosie said. “I said I can’ complain.”
“My mistake.”
“You didn’ tell me you could speak Spanish,” Herzog said.
“You didn’t tell me that you could speak Spanish.”
Rosie clapped her hands and laughed.
“I like ju,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I need somethin’ t’ drink,” Herzog said.
Rosie took a step forward and rested a hand on my arm. A concerned expression crossed her plump face. “¿Estás herido?”
“Sí,” I said, “but I’m getting better.”
“Bueno.”
The restaurant was divided in two by an iron gate. The gate was open. The dining area was on one side of the gate. On the other was a short corridor that led to a brightly lit grocery store that I never did get a good look at. The walls of the restaurant were painted and textured to resemble adobe. Woven tapicería hung from the walls, and various Mexican artifacts—piñatas, burros, clowns, painted clay figures of Mexican cowboys on horses, and even elephants—were tastefully scattered throughout. The booths and tables were made of dark wood, and suspended above each was a soft light with a shade made up to resemble a sombrero. Along the wall was a battered and scarred bar with taps for Dos Equis, Corona, Tecate, Negra Modelo, Summit Ale, Budweiser, and Miller Genuine Draft. Ads for Jose Cuervo tequilas were plastered to the walls next to clay lizards.
Rosie led us to a vacant booth, and after we sat down, she slipped a pair of laminated menus in front of us featuring tacos, burritos, enchiladas, tostadas, quesadillas …
“¿Señora?” I asked.
“Sí.”
“Herzy told me you were Puerto Rican.”
“¿Sí?”
“But your restaurant, the furnishings, menu—it’s Mexican.”
“Sí. Jour right. When we come ’ere thirty-five jear ago, the people, they don’ know Puerto Rican from Mexican. They t’ink it is the same. We were afraid if we don’ give ’em the food they expect, we would lose business. So we give ’em Mexican. But now”—she pointed at a few dishes on the bottom left-hand side of the menu—“we are cooking dishes from my country.”
I studied the selection—plátano frito, pescado frito, mofongo. I ordered quickly, “Empanadas de carne y pollo.”
Rosie nodded her approval.
“I like jour friend,” she told Herzog.
Herzog nodded but didn’t agree to anything. Instead, he ordered the daily special—Rosie’s Cactus Pepper Stew.
The moment after Rosie left the booth, I said, “Nice place.”
Herzog sai
d, “Shut up, McKenzie.”
So I did.
The food we ordered was served fairly quickly by a waitress Herzog knew as Mayra—she was happy to see him, too. Eating my fried pastry stuffed with beef and chicken was difficult with one hand, yet well worth the effort. Herzog’s stew looked so good I might have broken my personal rule about asking for a taste of someone else’s meal except, well, it was Herzog. We ate in silence. Herzog washed his meal down with a Mexican beer; I had switched to iced tea. Suddenly Herzog pointed upward at nothing in particular with his fork.
“Shhh,” he said.
I tilted my head and listened. Around us were the murmur of voices and the tinkling of silverware. Above, from hidden speakers, came a Latin rock song.
“The music?” I asked.
“The guitar. Listen t’ those riffs.”
A moment passed. Herzog’s smile became gleeful.
“Carlos Santana,” he said the way some people might say, “Lord almighty.”
We listened some more.
“He the best,” Herzog said when the song ended, replaced by something from Marc Anthony that he didn’t care for at all.
“You’re starting to grow on me, Herzy,” I said.
“Don’ go thinkin’ we be friends or nothin’, McKenzie.”
“Never.”
“You just the man payin’ the bills.”
To prove it, when Mayra set the tab in the center of the table, Herzog slid it across to me. I didn’t mind. Between the iced tea and stuffed pastry, I was starting to feel pretty good about myself and the world in general. So good that I was actually mulling over the suggestion Nina had made that morning—Why not give the Jade Lily to the insurance company like you promised and forget the whole thing? Then the damn phone rang, ruining the moment.
“Yeah,” I said.
“This is Mr. Fiegen.”
There’s that “mister” again, my inner voice reminded me.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I just spoke to Branko Pozderac and Jon Hemsted.”
“Really?” I glanced at my watch. “It took them this long before they started whining?”
“Branko is livid.”
“What’s he got to complain about? The man’s lucky to be alive.”
“He’s a foreign national.”
“He’s a racist. He’s also a crook. Come to think of it, so are you.”
“Do we need to go through this again, McKenzie?”
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re calling?”
“You have something that belongs to me.”
“Are you referring to the letter? I’m going to hang on to that for a while.”
“If you think you’re going to blackmail me—”
“I just want to make sure that you keep your end of the deal.”
“Do we still have a deal?”
“You tell me.”
“I was told that the Jade Lily was destroyed.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Donatucci said—”
“What did he say? Think about it.”
Fiegen paused for a long moment.
“What are you up to?” he asked.
“I told Pozderac, although I don’t think he was listening, and now I’m telling you—I’ll be in touch.” I turned off my cell phone and set it in front of me. “I was starting to like it here. I was going to suggest we hang around for a while, have a few more drinks.”
“Still could,” Herzog said.
I closed my eyes and leaned back as far as I could without disturbing my collarbone. It had already been a long day.
“Sometimes, Herzy…”
I didn’t finish the thought, so Herzog finished it for me.
“You a cop,” he said. “You always be a cop.”
“If you say so.”
Herzog pointed at the check.
“I always tip twenty percent,” he said.
FIFTEEN
The street where Von Tarpley lived in Burnsville rose upward from the Minnesota River valley to a hilltop section of homes that must have looked impressive when they were first built in the decade following World War II. Times have changed. The average American home has doubled in size since the 1950s, and in today’s era of McMansions and three-and-a-half baths, Tarpley’s yellow two-story colonial with attached garage now seemed small, quaint, and out of place. It still had its Christmas lights up, which wasn’t particularly surprising. Minnesotans usually put them up around Thanksgiving when the ground is comparatively snow free and take them down when the snow melts in April. The question was—did Von still turn them on? Some people argue that Christmas lights must be extinguished the day after Christmas. Others hold out for New Year’s Day. Still others, in a staggering breach of etiquette, light them up well into February. Those that keep them shining all year ’round—well, they’re just plain nuts. My mother had been a big believer in the Twelve Days of Christmas and turned off the lights on January fifth. After she died, my father kept up the tradition, and now I did.
We parked just down the street from the house and sat watching. No other cars approached or left; no one walked by. The street wasn’t used by anyone except the people who lived on it, and then just for transportation. It had been skillfully plowed, and most of the sidewalks and driveways abutting it had been cleared of snow. However, only a hole big enough to allow a car to pass had been carved out of the huge mound thrown up onto Tarpley’s driveway, and only a narrow path had been shoveled on his sidewalk, allowing room for just one person to pass. I kept thinking “his.” I had to remind myself that Tarpley had been dead for over a week now.
I unlatched the door of the Jeep Cherokee and shoved it open with my good arm.
“Want me t’ wait?” Herzog asked.
“Come with,” I said.
“Why?”
“You’re scarier than I am.”
“Fuckin’ Girl Scouts scarier ’an you.”
We made our way down the street and up the driveway. I knocked on the door. Von Tarpley opened it as if she had been expecting someone else. When she saw it was me, her face drained of color. I was mistaken about Herzog. I didn’t need him to frighten the woman. She was ready to be afraid of anyone for any reason, even a guy with a bum shoulder and ankle who couldn’t run her down if he tried.
“I know you,” she said, although by the sound of her voice it seemed she wasn’t quite sure.
“Mrs. Tarpley?” I said. “My name is McKenzie. We met in the corridor outside the police department a few days ago.”
She nodded her head as if it had all come back to her. “You’ve been hurt,” she said.
“A minor accident, I said. “This is my associate Mr. Herzog. We represent the City of Lakes Art Museum. I hope we’re not disturbing you.”
“What do you want?”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about the Jade Lily.”
“I already told the police and that insurance investigator everything I know.”
“I appreciate that, ma’am.” Von raised an eyebrow at the word “ma’am.” “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to discuss the matter with us as well?”
She looked past me at Herzog. “Are you the last?” she asked. “I talk to you, will I finally be done with all of this?”
“I suppose,” I said.
“Because I’m tired of it. Tired of the whole thing. Patrick was cremated yesterday.”
“Sorry I missed the service,” I said.
“There was no service.”
Von stepped away from the open door and allowed us to enter her living room. It was small and cramped and littered with cardboard boxes, many of them with handwritten labels that corresponded to various rooms—kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. Most of them were stacked on top of the chairs, sofas, and tables. The furniture was relatively new yet unimpressive. It looked like the kind of stuff a man might buy without consulting his wife. There were two arches. The one in front of me led to the kitchen. The one to my left led to a room
I couldn’t identify—dining room, probably. A carpeted staircase led to the upstairs bedrooms and bath. I could hear music in the distance, Stacey Kent’s crystal-clear voice singing about love in a hotel made of ice, but I couldn’t determine which room it came from.
“Excuse the mess,” Von said by way of explanation. “I’m getting ready to move. The real estate agent will put the house up for sale and start conducting tours right after I get packed.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Phoenix. I have friends there.”
“It’s warm in Phoenix.”
“Warmer than here.”
“When are you leaving?”
“End of the week.”
I stared at the packing crates and wondered—what if I started opening boxes and looked inside? What would I find?
“Somehow I expected you to be older,” Von said.
“Hmm, what?”
“I expected you to be older. I know we met before, and yet I expected you to be an older man. As old as my husband, anyway.”
I shot a glance at Herzog. He was standing near the door, an impassive expression on his face, as if he were watching the opening credits of a movie and wondering if it would be worth the ticket price or not. I looked back at Von. Here was a woman who could give Heavenly Petryk a run for her money. She wore little makeup and no jewelry, not even a wedding ring—the pale band of skin at the base of her fourth finger, left hand was already returning to normal. Her long brown hair was tied back, and she was casually, almost sloppily dressed—clothes chosen for the task of packing cardboard boxes. Yet there was no question that there was a real woman beneath the loose-fitting clothes. The color had returned to her lovely face, giving her the look of a college girl ten years her junior. Her scent was light and fresh in the stale air of the house. Her voice was unexpectedly husky and deep, with a rich resonance that seemed to vibrate in the silence that followed her words. Certainly she didn’t look or behave like a woman whose husband had been murdered a week ago—there was nothing sulky or mournful in her expression or movements.
“You were expecting me?” I asked.
“No, but I recognized the name. McKenzie. Not from when we met, either. You’re the one they hired to take the Jade Lily back to the museum after the ransom was paid.”
Curse of the Jade Lily: A McKenzie Novel Page 23
