Curse of the Jade Lily (Mac McKenzie #9)

Rask gestured with his chin at a body bag lying in the snow. “Take a look,” he said. There was distrust in his voice, but I didn’t take it personally. That was how he always talked.

I knelt and unzipped the black vinyl bag and peeled back the sides, all my actions duly chronicled by the recorder’s camera. The arch light reflected off the dead man’s pale, frozen face. It was Patrick Tarpley. He was dressed pretty much as he was in his photograph. There was a bullet hole in his throat, and blood had saturated his shirt, tie, suit jacket, and overcoat before his heart had stopped pumping. I pulled the zipper all the way to the end of the bag to get a look at Tarpley’s feet. He was wearing dress shoes.

A dozen thoughts crowded into my brain at once. I’m ashamed to say that none of them had anything to do with Tarpley as a man whose cherished life had been violently ripped away, none had to do with his wife, none asked about his children if he had any, his family, or his friends.

“Do you have a time of death?” I asked.

“Do you?” Rask replied.

What’s that supposed to mean? my inner voice asked.

I carefully zipped the bag closed and stood facing the lieutenant. I had dressed for the weather—Sorel boots, thick leather coat and hat, warm gloves. Just the same, I said, “Awfully cold to be playing games, LT.”

The recorder stepped back a few feet so he could get both of us in the same shot.

“ME won’t even guess until he gets the body on the table,” Noehring said. “Given the temperature and the vic’s clothing, it’ll take some doing to get a precise time.”

I was astonished to hear someone—anyone—answer for Rask. As it was, Rask gave Noehring a look that could have melted glaciers. If Noehring noticed, he chose to ignore it, another astonishment. I kept pressing to see how much I could get away with.

“Did he return fire?” I asked.

“He had a piece in his inside suit pocket,” Noehring said. “Nine-millimeter S&W. His overcoat was buttoned over it.”

“Any witnesses?”

“None so far.”

“Who discovered the body?”

“Cross-country skier. He deviated from the usual path; otherwise we might not have found him till spring.”

“Any indication that the body was dumped here?”

“No. We have two sets of footprints coming from the direction of the parking lot and one set going back. We’ll know better when we conduct a daylight search in the morning.”

“Vehicles?”

“The parking lot was empty.”

“Someone drove him here, killed him, and drove away,” I said. “Someone he wasn’t afraid of. He didn’t know he was going for a walk in the snow; otherwise he would have dressed for it. Did he have a cell phone?”

“Yes,” Noehring said. “We checked the call log. We’re running the numbers now.”

“Is mine among them?”

The two cops looked at each other and then back at me.

“Should it be?” Rask said.

That made me step backward. Up until that moment, I thought they had dragged Tarpley’s call log, discovered that he had spoken to me earlier, and summoned me to the crime scene to explain myself. Now I wasn’t sure.

“Why am I here?” I asked.

Rask gestured at the body bag again.

“Do you know this man?” he asked.

“We’ve never met.”

“That doesn’t answer 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?”