Curse of the Jade Lily (23 page)

“Who told you that?”

“You did, Doctor—when you woke me up the first time.”

The doctor smiled some more. “What happened to you?” she asked.

She already knew—I had explained it twice before, so I gave her the abbreviated version.

“I was in a motel room off I-694. I was examining the Jade Lily. I was looking for an imperfection caused by the carving process that resembled an
M.
And then—”

“What happened next, McKenzie?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What do you remember?”

“I was in the parking lot of the motel next to my car. I was on the ground, the asphalt. My shoulder…” I tried to sit up in the bed, and when I did, the broken ends of my collarbone rubbed together and a pain as excruciating as anything I’ve ever felt rushed like a tsunami from my shoulder to my brain. “Oh—God!” My hand went to my collarbone. Touching it only made the pain worse. “Dammit.” I started laughing because it hurt so much. “I remember that. I remember the pain in my shoulder.”

“You fractured your clavicle,” the doctor said.

“I know,” I said. “I know, I know.”

“You also sprained your left ankle and sustained numerous cuts, contusions, and abrasions, mostly on your extremities.”

“I forgot about those. Thanks for reminding me.”

“You were fortunate to be wearing a Kevlar vest.”

“Be prepared—I learned that in the Boy Scouts.”

“Somehow I find it hard to believe that you were ever a Boy Scout.”

“Truth be told, I wasn’t. They tossed me out. Said I had a problem with authority.”

“What else do you remember?”

“About the Scouts?”

“McKenzie…”

“I remember hearing the sirens while I was lying in the parking lot. Then there’s a gap. Then I remember the paramedics were putting a collar around my neck and sliding me onto a backboard and loading me into the ambulance. The rest is all bits and pieces—the ride to the hospital, the ER, a CAT scan—how did that go, by the way?”

“It was negative. No bleeding whatsoever.”

“That’s good.”

The doctor shrugged.

“Isn’t it?” I asked.

“A head injury and resultant cognitive impact is not readily measured by any blood test or X-ray.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that people with a normal CT can still have significant issues.”

“What kind of issues?”

“Severe headaches, nausea, problems with concentration, with balance, blurred vision, ringing in the ears.”

“I’ve had concussions before.”

“I know you have. What you need to know is that the more concussions you have, the more susceptible to concussions you become and the more persistent the symptoms you will experience. Being in motel rooms that blow up—not a wise choice for you, McKenzie.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” I said. And moved my shoulder. And felt the pain. “Oh, God. Shouldn’t you be giving me morphine or something?”

“The trouble with pain medicines is that they can mask symptoms that we need to be aware of.”

“How ’bout aspirin? How ’bout ibuprofen? How ’bout you just hit me over the head with a two-by-four and get it over with?”

“I’ll get you some Tylenol for your headache. You do have a headache, don’t you?”

“You’ve read my mind.”

“Afterward, I want you to try to get some sleep.”

“So you can wake me up in a couple of hours and do this all over again?”

“It’s important that you can be roused to normal consciousness.”

“You call this normal?”

The doctor set my hand back on the bed and gave it a gentle pat. “I’ll see you soon,” she said.

*   *   *

Bright sunlight flooded the hospital room. I was sitting up in bed, my back against the headboard. Lieutenant Rask stood at my side. His eyes were tired, his clothes were rumpled, and his face was in need of a shave. I doubted he’d had a moment of sleep since I was blown up—was it only twenty-four hours ago? It seemed so much longer. Mr. Donatucci was standing next to the window staring out at God knew what. He looked the same as he always did. I had spoken to both of them earlier, giving them bits and pieces of information. Now they were back for more.

The doctor was leaning against the door, her hands behind her back, monitoring the interrogation.

“How did you get out of the motel room, McKenzie?” Rask asked.

“I don’t remember.”

I winced as I turned my head toward him. It’s impossible to put a cast on a broken collarbone. Instead, the doctor put me in a shoulder immobilizer—a wide elastic belt that wrapped around my chest. An elastic cuff went over my upper arm, another went around my forearm, and both cuffs were firmly pinned to the belt so that I was unable to move either. The immobilizer supported the weight of my arm, keeping it from pulling the fracture out of alignment. It also limited shoulder rotation. All this was supposed to allow the bone to heal itself within six to eight weeks. Unfortunately, it didn’t do anything for the pain, which I was assured would remain my constant companion for at least three weeks. I was offered Vicodin and Percocet, but both made me nauseous, so I settled for Tylenol and ibuprofen. Neither seemed particularly helpful.

“We found you in the parking lot outside the room,” Rask said. “How did you get there?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You weren’t blown out of the room. The blast was too powerful. You would have been shredded like the bed, like the windows, like everything else.”

“Was the bomb in the room?” I asked.

“No. It was a shape charge attached to the ceiling of the room beneath you and detonated by remote control.”

“The artnappers set it.”

“Obviously. What isn’t obvious is how you got out alive.”

“I don’t remember.”

“McKenzie, when we found you, when the paramedics were treating you, glass, plaster from the walls, other debris, it was under your body. You collapsed on top of the debris after the bomb went off.”

I kept looking Rask in the eye because it seemed important that I do so regardless of the pain it caused me.

“I don’t know what to tell you, LT,” I said.

“How is that possible?” Rask turned to look at the doctor. “How is this possible?”

“Amnesia for the events at and preceding a head injury with loss of consciousness is very common,” she said. “It’s possible memory will return, but probably it won’t.”

“You said there was no demonstrable injury to his brain.”

“That means nothing.”

Rask spun around to face me. I lifted my right hand and then let it fall back on the bed because I couldn’t lift my left.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Yeah,” Rask said. “So am I.”

“Do you have anything yet?”

“We have the credit card number used to reserve the two rooms,” Rask said. “It was stolen. We have security footage of the young man who registered. He made the reservations late Thursday afternoon during the blizzard. We’re attempting to match his face to the mug shots in our database. No hits so far, and truth be told, we’re not likely to get any. I’ll get you a photograph later. You said you never saw any of the artnappers, but who knows? We have video of what we believe to be the SUV that the artnappers drove in and out of the parking lot. It matches the SUV we saw in the footage taken at the museum when the Lily was stolen—I have a car guy who claims it’s a Toyota RAV4. Unfortunately, we can’t read the plates. What else? Forensics is trying to put the bomb back together, find out where the explosive came from, see if we can read the signature of the bomber—we might get something there, but it’ll probably take a while. The thieves just made a big score, and they’re likely to celebrate. We have people checking strip joints, casinos—the big-buck clubs. All of our undercover guys have been briefed—they have their ears open, and of course, we’re leaning on all of our CIs. The money was marked—the thieves have to know that, so they might try to launder it. We’re watching everyone we know who is available to do that sort of thing. We’ve also alerted Homeland Security in case they try to smuggle the cash out of town by plane or train. Nothing so far.”

“I wish I could help,” I said.

“McKenzie?” Donatucci stepped away from the window and turned to face me across the length of the bed. “In your earlier statements, you said the Lily was in the motel room…”

“No. I said—look, it could have been the Lily, it could have been a fake, I don’t know. I remember examining it. I was looking for the
M.
That’s the last thing I remember before the paramedics arrived.”

“Then you did not authenticate the Lily.”

“I don’t know.”

“Fake or not, you said it was made of jade,” Donatucci said.

“It felt like jade.”

“McKenzie, we’ve examined the debris left after the explosion. We sifted through it very carefully and we can’t find any jade. Not a shard, not even a sliver.”

“Huh?”

“Can you explain that?”

“No, I can’t,” I said.

“You’re absolutely sure it was there, the Lily?”

“Yes. Or at least something resembling the Lily.”

“The money…”

“It was in room 122 last time I saw it.”

“We found your dolly and the three gym bags—the shape charge blew upward, so room 122 was more or less intact. The money was gone.”

“Big surprise.”

Donatucci threw a hard look at Rask. I don’t know what passed between the two, but it was clear that neither of them was satisfied with my answers.

“I presume you won’t be paying off a claim on the Jade Lily anytime soon,” I said.

“No,” Donatucci said. “Not until we have more definitive evidence that it’s irretrievably lost.”

Good,
my inner voice said.

“Have you informed the boys and girls at the museum?” I asked.

Donatucci quickly glanced at his watch. “They’re having another one of their emergency meetings in about an hour. I’ll tell them then.”

“Good.” This time I said it aloud.

“I’m also going to tell them that the investigation will continue. This isn’t over yet, McKenzie.”

“Gentlemen,” the doctor said from the door, “if there’s nothing else, Mr. McKenzie needs his rest.”

To emphasize her point, she pushed herself away from the door and then pulled it open.

The doctor had been very good at protecting me while I was in her care, even refusing to acknowledge to the media that I was in the hospital. Fortunately, if I can use that word, several other people were also injured in the explosion, although none of them seriously—most of them had been staying in rooms adjacent to 222. They were more than happy to provide the news media with all the interviews they wanted, so I was left more or less alone. A TV reporter named Kelly Bressandes, who, to the great pleasure of her male audience, always dressed like a hostess in a gentlemen’s club, recognized my name among the injured—I had given her a story a couple of years back in exchange for a few favors. She had managed to sneak into my room the night before, startling the hell out of me. I hadn’t been put into an immobilizer then, and flinching the way I did caused pain in my shoulder that brought tears to my eyes.

“McKenzie,” she said as she approached the bed, her honey-colored hair reflecting the lights of the monitors. I had no idea why she was whispering.

“Monica?” I said.

“It’s Kelly. Kelly Bressandes.”

“Monica?”

“No, it’s Kelly. McKenzie, what happened at the motel?”

I brought a knuckle to my eye yet did not brush away the tears. I turned my head so she could get a good look at the scratches on my cheek and the bruise on my forehead. I was hoping I looked as pathetic as I felt.

“Motel. Boom,” I said.

“Yes, there was an explosion. McKenzie, tell me about the Jade Lily.”

“Lily?”

“Yes.”

“Lily Bressandes?”

“No, I’m—the Lily, McKenzie. The Jade Lily.”

That’s when the doctor entered the room. She demanded to know who Bressandes was but clearly didn’t care, because in her next breath she told her to get out and never come back. As the reporter was leaving, I called to her.

“Good to see you again, Kelly. I’ll talk to you soon.”

The doctor told me I was pathetic, so I knew the look I was going for had worked. She then interviewed me as she had just hours earlier. I never did get much sleep, so I really was tired when she told Rask and Donatucci it was time to leave.

Lieutenant Rask was tapping my knee through the bedsheets.

“We’ll talk again,” he told me.

“Sure,” I said.

Both men moved to the door. Donatucci left the room first. I called to Rask.

“LT?” I said. “What happened to my car?”

“I had it towed to the City of Minneapolis impound lot,” he said.

“The one near International Market Square?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose that’s as secure a place as any.”

Rask paused for a moment as if he were trying to decipher a coded message and then gave it up.

“I have your Beretta,” he said. “Come see me when you get out of here.”

“Sure.”

After he left, I closed my eyes and settled against my pillows as best I could without moving my shoulder. I hated like hell to lie to them, especially Rask.

“I’ll make it up to you guys first chance I get,” I said.

“What did you say?”

I opened my eyes. The doctor was standing inside the door.

“When can I leave?” I asked.

“As far as I can tell, you’re neurologically intact—”

“That sounds promising.”

“You have a normal CT. I am concerned about the confusion and amnesia you demonstrated earlier, however, especially when you were in the ER and speaking to the investigators from the police department and insurance company for the first time.”

“I am not confused any longer.”

“If you want to make a big deal out of it, I can let you go right now. Otherwise, I’d like to keep you overnight.”

“Are you going to wake me up every two hours?”

“I’ll wake you once. How’s that?”

I thought about it for a few beats. On one hand, I needed to move and move fast if I was going to get the money back. On the other hand, my broken collarbone meant I would need help, and I wasn’t sure who to ask. On the other hand, all hell was going to break loose as soon as Mr. Donatucci met with the museum’s executive board. On the other hand, I wanted all hell to break loose. I was counting on it. On the other hand, I wasn’t prepared for it yet—all hell breaking loose, I mean. On the other hand, this wasn’t rocket surgery. I mean brain science. I mean—Jeezus! How many hands have you got? Focus.