Curse of the Jade Lily: A McKenzie Novel Read online

  Her candor caught me by surprise. To disguise my reaction, I glanced around the living room looking for a diversion. There was a stack of framed photographs resting on one of the boxes. The top photograph was apparently a wedding photo of Von and her husband standing on a lush green hill. He was wearing a dark suit. She was wearing a simple white sheath that somehow made Kate Middleton’s bridal gown look like a dishrag—or maybe it was just the way she wore it. A pond surrounded by birch trees lay below them. I knew where it had been taken—I had been there—but didn’t say. I held it up for Von to see.

  “That was taken nearly two years ago,” she said. “I’m a lot older than I was then.”

  They were not married when Tarpley was hired by the museum, my inner voice said. That came later.

  “Where did you meet your husband?” I asked.

  “At an art exhibit.” She took the photograph from my hand and set it back on the pile. “I thought he was dashing. Swear to God. When he was offered the job at City of Lakes, I followed him here. I thought it would be an adventure. Became a tearjerker, instead. Three-hanky special. Aren’t you going to ask why?”

  “Why?”

  “I told the police. They didn’t want to hear it. I told the insurance investigator. He didn’t believe me. You’re going to be different somehow?”

  Her tone was both assertive and lacking in self-confidence. It was the tone of a woman who was skating on dangerously thin ice and knew it.

  “Unlike them, I’m not looking to arrest anyone,” I said.

  Von caught my eyes and held them, as if she were looking for a crack that would allow her to see inside my brain. She threw a furtive glance at Herzog, then came back to me.

  “What exactly do you want?” she asked.

  “Like you said, I’m the guy they hired to get the Jade Lily back.”

  “The Lily was blown up.”

  “Who says?”

  “Maybe it was the insurance guy who said, I don’t remember.”

  “Uh-huh. I was blown up, too. You could say I’m a little bit miffed about that.”

  Von went to a purse that rested on yet another box. She fumbled for a cigarette and lit it with a plastic lighter, laying down a blue smoke screen between us.

  “You guys should probably leave,” she said. “I don’t mean to be rude. I have a lot on my mind.”

  I’ll bet, my inner voice said.

  “You said the police didn’t believe your story,” I said.

  “Oh, they believed it. They just didn’t want me to repeat it.”

  “Try me.”

  Von blew some more smoke.

  “One last time?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Where to begin?”

  “Start with the robbery.”

  “No, the story begins before that.”

  “Start where you like.”

  “I suppose it begins with the cop.”

  “What cop?”

  “Lieutenant Scott Noehring of the Minneapolis Police Department. He’s a hero, you know. It said so in the newspaper.”

  Von paused for a moment as if she expected me to respond. When I didn’t, she took a long drag of the cigarette and resumed talking with the exhale.

  “He appeared one day not long after Patrick started his new job with the museum,” Von said. “He explained that he knew all about Patrick’s past, and if Patrick didn’t cooperate, he would give the information to City of Lakes and every other museum he could think of, effectively blackballing him from his profession.”

  “What information?”

  Von had enough of the cigarette and put it out in a pristine ashtray. I wondered if smoking was a habit or just something she was using as a prop.

  “Let me finish,” she said. “Patrick gave in to the cop. He started paying the blackmail. A thousand dollars a month. Doesn’t sound like much until you start adding up the months. Twelve in a year. Twenty-four over two years. The cop wasn’t satisfied with the amount, so he registered Patrick as a confidential informant. I’m not even sure what a confidential informant is, how it works, but whatever, all the money the police paid Patrick went into the cop’s pocket. I begged Patrick to tell me what happened. Finally he did. He told me that when he was a senior in high school he was accused of being a child molester. Of being a pedophile. He said the accusations had followed him ever since.”

  “Was it true?”

  “Technically. What happened, at least what Patrick told me happened, when he was a senior in high school he had sex with a freshman…”

  “I was told the kid was more like nine.”

  Von flashed her remarkable brown eyes at me. I didn’t know if she was annoyed that I asked the question or that I had interrupted her story again.

  “High school freshman,” she said. “It was backseat-of-a-parked-car stuff. The freshman’s parents found out and went ballistic. They called the police, called the prosecutor. They weren’t satisfied with a charge of statutory rape. They bullied the prosecutor into also charging Patrick as a child molester. Eventually all the charges were dropped. The sex was consensual, after all. Both parties were kids. Word got out just the same. It always does, doesn’t it? Patrick was ostracized in school. His parents pretty much disowned him. This happened thirty-five years ago. The charges followed him, still. Every job application has the same line—‘Have you ever been convicted of a felony?’ Patrick was never convicted, but investigators looking into his background could see what he was accused of. Some labels you can’t shake off.”

  “Did the City of Lakes Art Museum know this when they hired him?” I asked.

  “I think so. That woman, Perrin something, I think she knew but didn’t care. If word got out, though, got out to the public, she’d care one heckuva lot.”

  “So Patrick allowed Noehring to blackmail him.”

  “I’m not sure if ‘allowed’ is the right word, but yes. At least until he decided he had had enough. Or maybe it was I who made that decision.”

  “You?”

  “I told Patrick I was leaving him.”

  “Because of the blackmail?”

  “I didn’t want to live like that anymore. A woman wants a man who—ahh, let’s just say I made a mistake when I married Patrick.”

  She didn’t strike me as a woman who made wrong decisions about men, and I told her so.

  Von laughed at that. “Well, I made a doozy, only I didn’t know it until Noehring came around,” she said. “That freshman I told you about wasn’t a girl. Was a boy. One of the reasons the parents went crazy. Either Patrick was a pedophile or their son was gay, and they couldn’t have that. You need to remember—this was thirty-five years ago. A different age. No homosexuals on TV back then. The news, though, it changed everything between us. Patrick was the best friend I ever had. If he had told me he was gay he’d still be my best friend. He held it back, probably because of what happened when he was a kid. My point is—boys who love boys should marry boys. They shouldn’t marry girls and pretend to be something they’re not. Sucks for everybody. So we decided to go our separate ways, Patrick and I.”

  “What does this have to do with the Jade Lily?”

  “When I told Patrick I wanted a divorce, I also told him that I didn’t want a settlement; I didn’t need alimony. It was going to be amicable, you know? He said that I should have something for my trouble, and him, too. I asked what he meant, and he said he was nursing an idea and would get back to me. He didn’t, though. I didn’t know what happened until the insurance man came to question me about the theft.”

  “Are you saying that you didn’t know your husband was going to steal the Lily?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Did you tell this to the police?”

  “When they came around after they found Patrick, yes, I did. Every word. This cop, his name was Lieutenant Rask; he didn’t want to hear it. Told me not to repeat it. Especially the part about Lieutenant Noehring being a blackmailer.”

/>   “I understand his point of view,” I said.

  “Do you?”

  “I understand yours, too.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Von, you are the most beautiful liar I have ever met. No, wait”—I gave it a second’s thought—“that honor actually belongs to someone else. You are a strong second place, though. In any case, you’re lying. You lied to the cops; you’re lying to me. I can’t blame you for that.”

  “I am not lying.”

  “Sure you are. You were in on the theft. You were involved from the very beginning.”

  Von smirked. “Prove it,” she said.

  “I’m not interested in proving anything. Like I said, I don’t care if anyone goes to jail. If push comes to shove, though, I’d tell the cops to talk to Jenny Thomas.”

  Now it was Von’s turn to act surprised. She moved to a chair and picked up the box that had been resting on the cushion.

  “Are you tired?” she asked. “Do you want to sit down?”

  “No, I’m good,” I said.

  Von returned the box to its original position. Her demeanor had shifted in those few seconds. She was still trying to play me, but it was like a tennis player who suddenly discovered that her opponent had a better backhand than she anticipated. She had become less sure of herself.

  “So you talked to Jenny,” she said. “What a busy little bee you are.”

  “Should we quit screwing around, then?” I asked.

  “What do you want?”

  “A hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollars.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollars. That’s what they were going to pay me when I retrieved the Jade Lily. Only there is no Jade Lily to bring back, so guess what? I’m not getting paid.”

  Both Von and Herzog seemed quite confused by my remark.

  “I don’t know anything about this, McKenzie,” Von said.

  “What do you know?”

  “Are you a cop? Are you working for the cops? You have to tell me if you are.”

  It was one of the great urban legends, of course, that the police have to identify themselves to criminals when they ask. It’s simply not true and never has been, but who was I to argue with the woman.

  “No, I am not a cop,” I said. “No, I am not working for the cops or the insurance company or the museum. What about you, Mr. Herzog?”

  “Fuckin’ cops,” he said.

  “All I want is my hundred and twenty-seven thousand. Von…” I stepped closer and gave her my most menacing look, the one I practice in front of the mirror when I’m alone. “I mean to get what’s mine. I may not be in any condition right now to beat it out of you. My friend…” I pointed at Herzog. “What do you say, Mr. Herzog?”

  “You oughtn’ mess wi’ a man’s money,” he said.

  “I don’t have your money, McKenzie. I don’t have any money. You have to believe me.”

  “What happened to the one-point-three million that was paid for the Lily?”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “What do you know?”

  “I know…” Von hesitated.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  She retreated behind a wall of moving crates, but they didn’t seem to give her much comfort.

  “It’s true,” she said. “I admit it. I knew Patrick was going to steal the Lily. He had it all planned out. All he needed was a go-between that he could trust, someone he chose and not the insurance company. Jenny had given me your name. She gave me your name because of something else that had nothing to do with the Lily.”

  “This other matter—did it have anything to do with Derek Anderson, the man you were having an affair with?”

  It was the second time I caught her by surprise.

  “Jenny told you a lot, didn’t she?” Von said. “Yes, it was Derek. We weren’t having an affair, though. I was still upset about Patrick, and I guess you could say I was trying him on for size. Only he started making demands. I thought I might need help—I still cared enough about Patrick that I didn’t want him to find out about Derek and me, only this other thing came up.”

  “You gave Patrick my name?”

  “I did. That’s all I did.”

  “What was Patrick’s plan?”

  “Steal the Lily and then sell it back,” Von said. “He told me that if we worked it right—if he worked it right—the insurance company would pay for the Lily’s return and the police would never be called. He said he knew a man who could launder the money—he said the insurance company would be sure to have it marked—and afterward he would give me a share and that would be the end of it.”

  “Why steal the Lily? Why not steal something that was worth more?”

  “In case we—he got caught.”

  “Who was in on it with him?” I asked. “Besides you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “I don’t. After the Lily was stolen, Patrick was killed. I believe it was his accomplices who did it, just like everyone else, but I don’t know who they are. I would have told the police if I knew. I loved Patrick. He was my best friend.”

  “Who was your best friend?”

  The question came from a tall, dark man standing in the doorway. He had opened the front door and stepped into the house without Von or me noticing him. Herzog noticed, though. He took a few steps backward. His right hand was hidden under his jacket at the small of his back. He was staring at the intruder while his peripheral vision picked me up. There was a serious question in his eyes. I answered it with a slight shake of my head. His empty hand came out from under his jacket.

  “Who are you people?” the man asked.

  “Dennis.” Von maneuvered around the boxes to the door. “This is McKenzie and Mr. Herzog. They’re working for the museum to retrieve the Jade Lily.”

  “I don’t care who they work for,” Dennis said.

  Von reached his side and took his arm. “It’s all right,” she said.

  “No it isn’t. The way the police and the insurance company keep badgering you. Now these guys. No. I won’t allow you to answer any more questions.”

  “Are you an attorney?” I asked.

  “I don’t need to be a lawyer to know Mrs. Tarpley has rights.”

  I drifted to the door until I was standing next to Herzog. I recognized Dennis as I drew closer, even though the first time I had seen him he was standing much farther away. Dennis was the man who met Von in the corridor outside room 108.

  “How long have you and Mrs. Tarpley known each other?” I asked.

  “We were introduced—” Von said.

  Dennis broke her sentence. “That’s none of your business,” he said.

  “My associate and I might just make it our business,” I said.

  Von stepped in front of Dennis. “McKenzie, please,” she said. “He has nothing to do with the Lily. I promise you.”

  “Just so you know, I meant what I said before. I want my money. I’ll be in touch.”

  I reached out and tapped the tip of her nose with my finger. In hindsight, it was a silly gesture. After that, Herzog and I bulled our way past Von and Dennis and stepped onto the barely shoveled sidewalk.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I repeated.

  Dennis slammed the door behind us in reply.

  I’m pretty sure I was smiling as we made our way back to the Jeep Cherokee.

  “How was I?” I asked. “Scary?”

  “Girl Scout,” Herzog said.

  * * *

  Herzog started the Cherokee once we were safely inside, but I told him to wait before he put it in gear. I pulled the printed photograph out of my inside pocket and unfolded it. The sun was starting to set, and I turned on the dome light so Herzog could get a good look at it.

  “Do you recognize this gentleman?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. This is—ain’t this the dude inside the house? Dennis somethin’? One just threw us o
ut?”

  “He’s also the guy who put the bomb in the motel room.”

  “Fuckin’ A.” Herzog stared at the photo and then at Von’s house. “He the one try t’ blow you up?”

  “It gets better.” I pointed at the small SUV that had been parked directly in front of the Cherokee while we were in Tarpley’s house—a metallic red Toyota RAV4. “The vehicle he’s driving was seen both at the motel and at the museum the night the Jade Lily was lifted.”

  Herzog opened his door.

  “Wait, wait,” I said. “Where are you going?”

  “Don’ you want to smoke this fuck?”

  “It can keep.”

  “No time like the present.”

  “Nah, nah, not yet.”

  “What we waitin’ on? You gonna call the cops?”

  “I thought you didn’t like cops.”

  “McKenzie, you gotta know—if’n he’s here, ’at proves ’im and the girl are in on it together. The money you lookin’ for probably in one of ’em boxes.”

  “No,” I said. “I know where the money is. It’s not here. Not yet, anyway. Otherwise they wouldn’t be wasting time packing.”

  “Where the money at, then?”

  Instead of answering, I pulled a pen from my pocket and used it to write down the license plate number of the Toyota. Afterward, I looked at my watch, which was on my right wrist because my left wrist was pinned to my chest.

  “We need to get going,” I said. “We’re running late.”

  * * *

  It was a bad time of day to drive with traffic crawling on the freeway like a distracted infant. Fortunately, since there were two of us in the Cherokee, we were able to use the car pool lanes. That helped us to be only ten minutes late when we reached El Cid’s joint in the Phillips neighborhood. ’Course, the way Cid behaved you’d think we had delayed a shuttle launch.

  “I don’t wait ten minutes for anybody,” he announced when we stepped inside the bar.

  I was tempted to blame Chopper, say he must have confused the time when I asked him to set up the meeting. That would have been cheap, though.

  “I misjudged the rush hour traffic,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “That is no excuse,” Cid said. “Punctuality is one way we show respect for each other.”

  He had me there.