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Authors: David Housewright
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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.
“Mr. McKenzie,” he said as he extended his hand. “Thank you for coming. My name is Jonathan Hemsted. I’m with the U.S. State Department.”
The words “State Department” caused me to glance at Rask. He was staring at Hemsted as if he were trying to bend a spoon. After he finished shaking my hand, Hemsted directed me toward the man who was sitting.
“This is Branko Pozderac,” he said. “Mr. Pozderac is a representative of the government of Bosnia and Herzegovina. He is, in fact, a member of the House of Peoples in the Parliamentary Assembly.”
Pozderac was twice as old as Hemsted. The lines across his forehead and around his mouth suggested that he was easily irritated, and I wondered how many flight attendants, hotel clerks, and waiters he’d tried to get fired over the years. I offered him my hand. He glanced at it, then looked away. I didn’t know if it was because I was an American or a commoner, but plainly he was afraid it might be catching.
“Is this the man who threatens grieving widows?” I asked.
Hot rage infused his eyes. He stood up blinking, and for a moment I was sure he would take a swing at me. However, the rage quickly gave way to contempt, and he returned to his seat with a dismissive grunt.
Yeah, that’s him, my inner voice said.
“Mr. McKenzie, please,” Hemsted said. “We wish to speak to you of a matter of utmost importance to our government and the government of Bosnia and Herzegovina.”
The entire scene made me nervous, so I did what I always did when I was out of my comfort zone—I shifted into smart-ass mode.
“Do I have time to go out for popcorn?” I asked.
Pozderac gave me a quick glance before finding something else more interesting to stare at. Hemsted continued as if I hadn’t spoken at all.
“I should point out,” he said, “that we have already discussed this matter with your mayor, the chief of police, and Lieutenant Rask.”
I sat next to Rask. I swear to God I could hear him growling. I didn’t think he was growling at me, though, so I ignored him.
“Okay, Jon,” I said. “I’m officially intimidated. What’s going on?”
I spoke to him as if we were equals, two guys chatting in the locker room, taking my time, grinning like I had seen him in the shower and was less than impressed. It was a style of conversation guaranteed to drive self-important people like Hemsted and Pozderac up the wall.
“This is not a matter to be taken lightly, Mr. McKenzie,” Hemsted said.
“I didn’t think it was, especially after you started dropping names and such.”
“McKenzie,” Rask said.
I tilted my head toward him. “Yeah?” I said.
“Listen to the man.”
Oh boy, my inner voice warned me. If Rask is intimidated—you are in so much trouble.
I gestured at Hemsted to continue.
He took a deep breath. “It is our understanding that you are currently employed by the City of Lakes Art Museum,” he said. “That you were retained to recover the Jade Lily, which was stolen from the museum two days ago.”
“I was,” I said. “Not anymore.”
“No?”
“The discovery of Patrick Tarpley’s corpse last night soured me on the job.”
Pozderac spoke for the first time. He had an East European accent, a lot of rolling R s, a lot of W s pronounced as V s, and a few missing articles. Yet he had no problem making himself understood.
“You let death of
“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.
“Mr. McKenzie,” he said as he extended his hand. “Thank you for coming. My name is Jonathan Hemsted. I’m with the U.S. State Department.”
The words “State Department” caused me to glance at Rask. He was staring at Hemsted as if he were trying to bend a spoon. After he finished shaking my hand, Hemsted directed me toward the man who was sitting.
“This is Branko Pozderac,” he said. “Mr. Pozderac is a representative of the government of Bosnia and Herzegovina. He is, in fact, a member of the House of Peoples in the Parliamentary Assembly.”
Pozderac was twice as old as Hemsted. The lines across his forehead and around his mouth suggested that he was easily irritated, and I wondered how many flight attendants, hotel clerks, and waiters he’d tried to get fired over the years. I offered him my hand. He glanced at it, then looked away. I didn’t know if it was because I was an American or a commoner, but plainly he was afraid it might be catching.
“Is this the man who threatens grieving widows?” I asked.
Hot rage infused his eyes. He stood up blinking, and for a moment I was sure he would take a swing at me. However, the rage quickly gave way to contempt, and he returned to his seat with a dismissive grunt.
Yeah, that’s him, my inner voice said.
“Mr. McKenzie, please,” Hemsted said. “We wish to speak to you of a matter of utmost importance to our government and the government of Bosnia and Herzegovina.”
The entire scene made me nervous, so I did what I always did when I was out of my comfort zone—I shifted into smart-ass mode.
“Do I have time to go out for popcorn?” I asked.
Pozderac gave me a quick glance before finding something else more interesting to stare at. Hemsted continued as if I hadn’t spoken at all.
“I should point out,” he said, “that we have already discussed this matter with your mayor, the chief of police, and Lieutenant Rask.”
I sat next to Rask. I swear to God I could hear him growling. I didn’t think he was growling at me, though, so I ignored him.
“Okay, Jon,” I said. “I’m officially intimidated. What’s going on?”
I spoke to him as if we were equals, two guys chatting in the locker room, taking my time, grinning like I had seen him in the shower and was less than impressed. It was a style of conversation guaranteed to drive self-important people like Hemsted and Pozderac up the wall.
“This is not a matter to be taken lightly, Mr. McKenzie,” Hemsted said.
“I didn’t think it was, especially after you started dropping names and such.”
“McKenzie,” Rask said.
I tilted my head toward him. “Yeah?” I said.
“Listen to the man.”
Oh boy, my inner voice warned me. If Rask is intimidated—you are in so much trouble.
I gestured at Hemsted to continue.
He took a deep breath. “It is our understanding that you are currently employed by the City of Lakes Art Museum,” he said. “That you were retained to recover the Jade Lily, which was stolen from the museum two days ago.”
“I was,” I said. “Not anymore.”
“No?”
“The discovery of Patrick Tarpley’s corpse last night soured me on the job.”
Pozderac spoke for the first time. He had an East European accent, a lot of rolling R s, a lot of W s pronounced as V s, and a few missing articles. Yet he had no problem making himself understood.
“You let death of
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