“Oh, I’ll be miles away.”
“With an airtight alibi, I’ll bet.”
Noehring took a sip of his Scotch.
“What do you think?” he said.
“I have another question—what do you think the odds are that the thief might shoot me by accident?”
“Almost nonexistent.”
“Almost?”
“With you alive and the Lily in your hands, the museum will be happy, the insurance company will be happy, and the police, they’re not going to get worked up over a bunch of dead thieves and murderers—they did kill Tarpley, right? With you dead, the investigation expands, and who knows where it’ll lead? ’Course, there are always accidents, aren’t there?”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“You might want to worry about the alternative.”
“That would be…?”
“You used to be police, McKenzie. You know how it works. I put the word out that you need to be taught a lesson, you’ll get a lesson. You’ll get more than one. The bleeding hearts call it police harassment.”
“The right-wing nut jobs call it the same thing.”
“I don’t think it’ll stop, either. A cop who sold his badge—that’s how it’ll be played, don’t think otherwise—you’ll have enemies for life. You might even have to move.”
“I collected the price on Teachwell over six years ago and no one has cared.”
“Till now.”
“You have it all figured out, don’t you?”
“Including which bank accounts to hide the money in. C’mon, McKenzie. There’s no need for this. We both know how things work. You probably never so much as asked for a free taco when you were on the job until one day the guy behind the counter offered you a free taco and you took it. After a while, you expected all the tacos to be free. Then Teachwell falls in your lap. You weren’t looking for a score, but there it was. The opportunity of a lifetime. So you took it. Who can blame you? What we’re talking about now, it’s just another opportunity. Only this time, you don’t need to do anything. I’ll take care of the heavy lifting.”
“There are at least three artnappers,” I said.
Noehring scooped up his glass, finished the Scotch, and set the glass back on the table. “So?” he said.
Jeezus, he’d do it, he really would, my inner voice said. He’d kill them all. And me, too.
“I’ll think about it,” I said aloud.
“Yeah, you do that. We’ll talk again.”
I did indeed think about it as I watched Noehring leave the restaurant. Mostly I thought that I had known an awful lot of cops personally—local, state, feds, you name it. Some were better at their jobs than others; some were assholes, pricks, bullies with a badge. Yet none of them had been crooks. That’s not to say that there weren’t plenty of cops with their hands out. God knows half of them portrayed on TV and in the movies are on the take. I had just never known one. Until now.
Something else I thought about—how did Noehring know where I was?
I didn’t know what to do about Noehring any more than I knew what to do about Hemsted. Both parties wanted me to steal the Lily for them and threatened to make my life miserable if I failed. Then there was Heavenly Petryk. God only knew what she had in mind. Not to mention Lieutenant Rask. There was no way I was going to please all these people. I decided there was only one thing left to do—ignore them and hope they all went away.
I finished the ale, left a generous tip so Emma would have nice things to say about me to Chopper, and made my way to the Jeep Cherokee parked in the restaurant’s lot. It was my intention to go home and have plenty more beers. Before I reached the car, however, my cell phone started ringing. A man passing through the lot, his head down, his face averted by the brisk wind, paused for a moment and then nodded and shook his finger at me. I don’t know if it was because he liked the artists, the song, or the irony of hearing “Summertime” in subfreezing temperatures.
The electronic display listed no name, just a number with a 312 prefix—Chicago. I had no idea who it could be. For a long time I had zealously protected my cell phone number, bestowing it on only a precious few people. Yet over time I seemed to have lost control of it. I answered just the same.
“Mr. McKenzie,” the voice said. “I apologize for calling. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“That remains to be seen.”
The caller thought that was funny.
“Let me introduce myself. I’m Jeremy Gillard.”
“Mr. Gillard,” I said.
“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry, call me Jerry. The man at the insurance company gave me your number. Again, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all. What can I do for you?”
“Well, first I should tell you that I’m calling under false pretenses.”
“Oh?”
“The City of Lakes Art Museum, what’s ’ername, Perrin Stewart, told me what’s going on with the Jade Lily—did you know that I own the Lily?”