Curse of the Jade Lily (Mac McKenzie #9)

Curse of the Jade Lily (Mac McKenzie #9) Page 23

“Yeah, I know.”

“She claimed she hadn’t seen or heard from her husband since he left for work Sunday afternoon. She said he hadn’t answered his cell phone and she was starting to get anxious. She said she called the museum, but there was no answer. She refused to believe Tarpley had anything to do with the theft.”

“What about the murder weapon?”

“A 25.”

Despite what you might see on TV and in the movies, only amateurs use guns the size of howitzers. Professionals prefer small-caliber weapons, get in close, aim for vital organs. I didn’t express that theory out loud, of course. It would be like telling a landscaper that grass was green. Instead, I said, “I don’t suppose you were allowed to ask Hemsted and Pozderac where they were between two thirty and four yesterday morning.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“It would be fun to put them at the scene, wouldn’t it?”

“It would make my day.”

“I appreciate that. They hurt your pride.”

“Yeah, they hurt my pride. Coming in here and telling me not to be a cop, Not to do my job. Threatening me if I do. They threatened you, too, McKenzie. Are you going to let them get away with that?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. I’ll tell you this much, LT. If I do what you ask—you follow baseball, right? When they list transactions, do you know what it means when Team A trades a guy to Team B for a player to be named later?”

“It means the quality of the player Team A gets in return will depend on how well the deal works out for Team B. You’re saying that the more you do for me, the more I’m going to owe you.”

“You might want to think about that before we become co-conspirators. I’m high maintenance.”

I stepped out of the front door of the Minneapolis City Hall and got slapped in the face by a hard, cold wind for my trouble. I pulled my scarf tight and zipped my leather jacket closer to my throat as I made my way to the Jeep Cherokee. The time on the parking meter had expired. Fortunately, there was no ticket under my windshield. I unlocked the vehicle, slid inside, and started it. I pulled my cell from my pocket and made a call while the engine warmed up. The phone was answered by Special Agent Brian Wilson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“Hi, Harry,” I said. I had given him the nickname when we first met because he reminded me of the character actor Harry Dean Stanton. As far as I knew, I was the only one who called him that. “How are things?”

“Hey, McKenzie. What’s going on?”

“Same-old, same-old.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Just another day in paradise. So, Harry—how’s my credit?”

“I think you might be one or two favors ahead,” Wilson said. “Why?”

“I need information.”

“You are so high maintenance, McKenzie. What kind of information? Tell me it’s not confidential.”

“I don’t know if it is or it isn’t. I need to find out as much as I can about a State Department wonk named Jonathan Hemsted.”

“The State Department? Getting a little ambitious, aren’t you, McKenzie?”

“Just a few minutes ago, Hemsted asked me to do something that I’m pretty sure is illegal.”

“How illegal?”

“If I did it, you would throw me in the can without a moment’s hesitation.”

“Hell, McKenzie, I’d do that if I caught you littering. What exactly do you want to know?”

“How much trouble I’d be in if I told Hemsted to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, if you can get me anything on a politician from Bosnia and Herzegovina named Branko Pozderac, that would be helpful, too.”

“This doesn’t sound like one of your usual gigs. What’s going on?”

“I’ll be happy to tell you everything, Harry, once I find out how dangerous Hemsted is. After that, you might not want to know.”

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