Curse of the Jade Lily (Mac McKenzie #9)

Curse of the Jade Lily (Mac McKenzie #9) Page 19

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.