my question.”
“You haven’t answered mine yet, either.”
“Should we take this conversation downtown?”
C’mon, my inner voice said. Take me downtown? Did you really say that?
“At least we’ll be warmer,” I said. The log recorder was still photographing me. “Would you get that damn camera out of my face?”
“McKenzie…” Rask said.
“Don’t try to intimidate me, Lieutenant.”
“Do you want to see intimidation?” He took a menacing step toward me. “I’ll show you intimidation.”
Noehring cut him off, moving quickly between us, and flashed a full-mouth smile. The light reflecting off his perfect teeth damn near blinded me.
“Can’t we all just get along?” he said.
Let me guess—you’re the good cop.
“Come to think of it,” I said. “Why is the Forgery Fraud Unit involved in a homicide investigation?”
“Lieutenant Rask contacted me.”
“Why?”
“Tarpley was my CI.”
“CI?”
“Confidential informant.”
“I know what it means,” I said. Most CIs are criminals who trade their knowledge of the streets—and their friends—for cash or favors. The French police rely heavily on informants and always have. The Brits do not. U.S. cops used to follow the English system. Now when it comes to criminal investigations, as with most of our problems, we tend to throw money at it. Still, “What would make a guy like Tarpley turn informant?” I asked. “What would he inform on?”
“He was very good at his job,” Noehring said. “He knew as much about what was going on in the art world as anyone who lived between Chicago and the West Coast.”
“You’re telling me he was smarter than the average door shaker.”
“Yes, I am.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question.” I pause for a moment. When no one spoke, I said, “Anyone?”
“He liked girls,” Noehring said.
“Don’t we all?”
“Little girls, preferably between the ages of seven and nine.”
Then I’ll stop feeling sorry for him, my inner voice said.
Out loud, I said, “You were blackmailing him into giving information.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Noehring said.
“Talk to us,” Rask said.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said. “I don’t even know why I’m here yet.”
“You’re here because of this.”
Rask produced a clear plastic bag. Inside the bag was a small sheet of wrinkled paper ripped from a pocket notebook. Written on the sheet was the name McKenzie.
“We found it stuffed in the outside pocket of his overcoat. Notice the ink?”
The first two letters were printed in vibrant blue, but the ink soon began to fade—the e was barely readable.
“You know what it tells me? It tells me it was written by a pen whose ink had frozen. Officer Thoreson? What’s the current temperature?”
“Minus nine, LT,” the log recorder said. ‘The wind chill is around minus twenty.”
“So, McKenzie, no bullshit,” Rask said. “Who would want to kill a man and then stuff your name in his pocket?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said you never met Tarpley, but you knew who he was, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“It’s kind of a long story. Sure you don’t want to go someplace warm?”
Noehring smiled his movie-star smile. Rask folded his arms across his chest. “Out with it,” he said.
I flashed on what the City of Lakes Art Museum executive board of trustees had said earlier about keeping news of the theft secret in order to protect the museum’s reputation. That made me hesitate, but only for a moment.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “have you ever heard of the curse of the Jade Lily?”
FOUR
The room was silent except for the monotonous drumming of Fiegen’s fingers on the tabletop. He and the other members of the museum’s executive board were seated in the same chairs in the museum’s conference room as the day before. This time no one looked happy to be there. Perrin leaned back in her chair, her eyes closed, her head tilted so
“You haven’t answered mine yet, either.”
“Should we take this conversation downtown?”
C’mon, my inner voice said. Take me downtown? Did you really say that?
“At least we’ll be warmer,” I said. The log recorder was still photographing me. “Would you get that damn camera out of my face?”
“McKenzie…” Rask said.
“Don’t try to intimidate me, Lieutenant.”
“Do you want to see intimidation?” He took a menacing step toward me. “I’ll show you intimidation.”
Noehring cut him off, moving quickly between us, and flashed a full-mouth smile. The light reflecting off his perfect teeth damn near blinded me.
“Can’t we all just get along?” he said.
Let me guess—you’re the good cop.
“Come to think of it,” I said. “Why is the Forgery Fraud Unit involved in a homicide investigation?”
“Lieutenant Rask contacted me.”
“Why?”
“Tarpley was my CI.”
“CI?”
“Confidential informant.”
“I know what it means,” I said. Most CIs are criminals who trade their knowledge of the streets—and their friends—for cash or favors. The French police rely heavily on informants and always have. The Brits do not. U.S. cops used to follow the English system. Now when it comes to criminal investigations, as with most of our problems, we tend to throw money at it. Still, “What would make a guy like Tarpley turn informant?” I asked. “What would he inform on?”
“He was very good at his job,” Noehring said. “He knew as much about what was going on in the art world as anyone who lived between Chicago and the West Coast.”
“You’re telling me he was smarter than the average door shaker.”
“Yes, I am.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question.” I pause for a moment. When no one spoke, I said, “Anyone?”
“He liked girls,” Noehring said.
“Don’t we all?”
“Little girls, preferably between the ages of seven and nine.”
Then I’ll stop feeling sorry for him, my inner voice said.
Out loud, I said, “You were blackmailing him into giving information.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Noehring said.
“Talk to us,” Rask said.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said. “I don’t even know why I’m here yet.”
“You’re here because of this.”
Rask produced a clear plastic bag. Inside the bag was a small sheet of wrinkled paper ripped from a pocket notebook. Written on the sheet was the name McKenzie.
“We found it stuffed in the outside pocket of his overcoat. Notice the ink?”
The first two letters were printed in vibrant blue, but the ink soon began to fade—the e was barely readable.
“You know what it tells me? It tells me it was written by a pen whose ink had frozen. Officer Thoreson? What’s the current temperature?”
“Minus nine, LT,” the log recorder said. ‘The wind chill is around minus twenty.”
“So, McKenzie, no bullshit,” Rask said. “Who would want to kill a man and then stuff your name in his pocket?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said you never met Tarpley, but you knew who he was, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“It’s kind of a long story. Sure you don’t want to go someplace warm?”
Noehring smiled his movie-star smile. Rask folded his arms across his chest. “Out with it,” he said.
I flashed on what the City of Lakes Art Museum executive board of trustees had said earlier about keeping news of the theft secret in order to protect the museum’s reputation. That made me hesitate, but only for a moment.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “have you ever heard of the curse of the Jade Lily?”
FOUR
The room was silent except for the monotonous drumming of Fiegen’s fingers on the tabletop. He and the other members of the museum’s executive board were seated in the same chairs in the museum’s conference room as the day before. This time no one looked happy to be there. Perrin leaned back in her chair, her eyes closed, her head tilted so
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