Secret of the Scroll (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) (15 page)

“Looking good on the screen?” he said, brow rumpled. “I’ll bet she’s a fat old biddy.”

I shrugged. “Makes no difference.”

In a few moments, May was back. “I found him,” she said. “It shows that he works for Star Express. Anything else?”

“No, but thanks a million, May. You’re a jewel.”

“And you’re a character. But I love it. Bye.”

May was one of those in the office who thought I’d gotten a raw deal. She was a bit rotund, all right, not a girl you’d likely invite to the senior prom. But I had learned a long time ago that treating people with respect, regardless of who they were or how they looked, usually paid dividends.

I looked back at Ted as I hung up the phone. “Our friend Nagy, or Nazari, works for Star Express.” The name had sounded familiar, and then as a few gears began to mesh, it hit me. “That’s Pat Intermaggio’s outfit. Nagy works for Harlan Walker Blackford’s son-in-law.”

“The banker? The one you got crossed with?”

“Right. And I’m not one of Intermaggio’s favorite people, either. I got a case thrown out he tried to get us to prosecute.”

“Are you thinking there’s some connection?”

I wasn’t sure what to think, but I could see one good possibility. “I’m sure he would have delighted in fingering me for my wife’s disappearance. It would be sort of poetic justice for him.”

As if to emphasize the point, my cell phone rang and the harsh-sounding voice of Detective Phillip Adamson greeted me. “Have you heard from your wife?”

“I haven’t located her yet.” My tone matched his. I stared at my Beretta on the night table.

“Then I had better launch a full investigation.”

“That won’t be necessary.” I may have said it a little too forcefully. “I haven’t exhausted all of my resources yet.”

“I know you’re an experienced investigator, McKenzie, but there comes a time, particularly when dealing with your own family, to step aside and let somebody else take over. It’s like a doctor won’t treat himself, and you don’t find a lawyer representing himself in court.”

“Nothing personal,” I said, “but I don’t believe our Metro Police Department can be fully objective either.”

His voice turned harder. “I told you this has nothing to do with the past.”

“Oh? Then why the hell did you contact the
OSI
and start digging into
my
past?”

That put him on the defensive. “You were the only name I had at first. It’s standard procedure. You would have done the same thing. Start with the known and work toward the unknown.”

“Yeah. Like what happened to John Peterson.”

“Damn it, McKenzie! This has nothing to do with Peterson or Tremaine. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Then why did you automatically assume I was probably guilty of something and should be investigated?”

“I did not automatically assume anything,” he replied. “But since you bring it up, there was the report of a vehicle similar to yours seen at the location of your wife’s abandoned car. Where were you yesterday afternoon, say between two and two-thirty?”

That was easy. “I was sitting at home being interviewed by Sergeant Gerald Christie about how my house had been ransacked by vandals.”

Judging by the pause that followed, I had struck a nerve. “Did you call to report the break-in?”

“Of course.”

“What the hell was Christie doing in Hermitage? He works out of the East Sector.”

“You tell me, Detective Adamson.”

He was obviously flustered, and I felt vindicated. If I had any idea of getting Metro involved in my wife’s disappearance, Tremaine’s brother-in-law sent to my door killed it.

“Never mind,” I said. “Just give me a little more time to pursue a few remaining leads on my wife’s whereabouts.”

Adamson got his voice back. “You know the first twenty-four hours is the most critical time in a case like this.”

“I know, and that time isn’t up yet. If I haven’t found her by this afternoon, I’ll step aside and cooperate in every way possible.”

He was not happy with it. “I have to be in court at eleven. It’s a case that will drag into the afternoon. You have until
four o’clock
. Then you had better produce Mrs. McKenzie or be at my office ready to lay it all on the line.”

I switched off the phone and looked up at Ted, who had been listening intently to my side of the conversation. “We have another deadline,” I said. “
Four p.m.
”

Chapter
19

Sheridan Drive
had a more friendly look under a compassionate sun. Only a few white clouds spotted a wide blue sky. I thought of Jill, how it would have appeared to her–
Looks like a great day for flying, Greg
. She could navigate in the worst of weather, but she loved a day like this that gave her a bird’s-eye view of the glorious world below. Were they letting her sleep? Was she getting food? I forced myself back to the task at hand.

I had sent Ted Kennerly to check out Star Express, since he was unlikely to be recognized by either name or face. My assignment was to put some flesh on Kamal Nazari, alias Kermit Nagy. I hit it lucky, catching a mail truck just passing through the neighborhood.

As I approached Nagy’s house, where I saw the green van with the white swirl still nursing a crippled front tire, a woman with an abundance of snowy-white hair strolled up the driveway next door, headed for the mailbox. She wore blue slacks and a heavy wine-colored woolen sweater, which she clasped to her chest with folded arms. I stopped near the mailbox just as she reached the end of the driveway. Climbing out of my Cherokee, I greeted her with my best smile.

“Good morning, ma’am. My name is Greg McKenzie. I’m an investigator, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Mr. Nagy.”

Her wary look told me she had been paying attention to those TV warnings about your friendly local con man. “You got some identification?”

I was impressed. The experts are always telling people to ask for ID, but few ever do. Fortunately, I had come prepared. I pulled out my billfold and flipped it open. The plastic window on one side held my military ID card, complete with atrocious but recognizable photo and my rank of lieutenant colonel. In one corner in rather small print it said “Retired,” but I doubt that she noticed it. She had to squint to read the main part. Beneath the window on the opposite side was a round brass medallion with an embossed replica of the
OSI
badge, complete with “Special Agent” at the top. It was a coin similar to ones used by Army Special Forces and other elite military outfits. If you’re in the O Club and somebody tosses one on the table, you’d better slam down your own or you buy the drinks. Of course, to the uninitiated, it looked like a real badge.

She stared at it, then looked up at me. “Air Force?”

“Yes, ma’am. Apparently he’s being considered for some kind of defense-related position.” That was my only bald-faced lie. I was trying to be careful not to leave myself open to a charge of impersonating an official investigator.

“But he ain’t nothing but a truck driver,” she said. “Sometimes he drives one of them things home . . . you know, with a big cab like you hitch a trailer to. Parks it in his driveway.”

“A tractor. Star Express?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

I nodded. “Well, the Air Force uses eighteen-wheelers to haul things around like missiles.”

“They do, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am. Would you mind giving me your name, please?”

“Alice Baker. Mrs. Alice Baker.”

I jotted it down in my notebook like a good investigator would, then looked back at her. “How long has Mr. Nagy lived here?”

She pulled a magazine and a few pieces of junk mail from the box. “They’ve been here about a year and a half. Keep pretty much to themselves. They’re right dark-skinned folks. Must be from
Pakistan
or
Iran
, or someplace like that. I’ve talked to his wife a few times. She speaks pretty good English. I guess they’re Muslim. She wears one of them shawls over her head.”

“Do they have children?”

“No.”

“Does she work?”

“No. She’s usually around the house. She’s gone somewhere now, though.”

“You mean like on a trip?”

“Yeah. I saw her leave yesterday morning. Had a small suitcase.”

Mrs. Baker kept up with her neighbors. Had Mrs. Nagy’s husband sent her off because of the little operation he was about to pursue? It seemed likely. “Have you noticed any unusual activity over there?” I asked. I had in mind something like Jill being marched into the house at gunpoint.

She looked thoughtful. “Well, I don’t know how unusual it is. They seem to have a lot of company after one of his trips. He’s gone for weeks at a time.”

“You mean they have parties?”

“No, not like that. People come calling the first few days. They must have pretty well-off friends. Most of ’em drive nice cars.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of that. But from the way she clutched the mail to her chest and glanced anxiously back toward the house, I suspected that she was eager to put an end to this interview and get in out of the cold. I suggested a compromise.

“If you’d like, we can finish this inside where it’s warmer,” I said.

She nodded eagerly. “That would be better.”

As we ambled down the driveway, I took in the view of the modest brick ranch house and the mature oaks and maples in the yard. “Nice place you’ve got,” I said. “Have you lived here long?”

“Lord, I guess. We built about the first house on the street.”

I wasn’t sure about her age, but she’d obviously been around for a while. “Is your husband retired?”

“He’s been gone several years, God rest his soul. He retired, all right . . . and died within a year. Was a lineman for the power company. Whenever there was a big storm, he’d get called out in the middle of the night. Used to worry me to death.”

“I don’t envy anybody who has to work under those conditions,” I said. “I’ve had to do it a few times.”

She glanced up at me. “Don’t suppose you was around here for the big ice storm back in ’fifty-one?”

“No, ma’am. I was in high school in
St. Louis
back then.”

“Well, it was a doozy. My husband was new on the job. He was working up on
Love Circle
where he could see across the city. Said the transformers blowing looked like fireworks. It was awful.”

We had reached the front door and she opened it and ushered me in. The living room was neat and tidy. She was obviously a scrupulous housekeeper. After inviting me to take a seat on the sofa, she asked if I would like a cup of coffee.

“It’s already brewed. Just take me a minute.”

It suddenly dawned on me that in my haste to get busy tracking down Jill’s captors, I had forgotten breakfast.

When Mrs. Baker brought my coffee from the kitchen, it was in a real china teacup. I was accustomed to drinking out of mugs. I had bought a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on my way over but decided this was not the time to indulge. Mrs. Baker sat down across from me and took a sip of coffee.

“You said you had talked with Mrs. Nagy a few times,” I said. “What about Mr. Nagy?”

She looked thoughtful. “Only once, I recall. I was working out in the yard. Seems like he was picking up dead sticks from a storm. When I said hello he stopped what he was doing for a minute. I was a little curious and asked what kind of truck driving he did. He said they hauled stage decorations, or something like that, for country music people. I had a feeling he didn’t like my asking questions. He had sort of a shifty look about him.”

“These friends who come by after he gets back from a trip. Do they just drive up, spend a few minutes and leave?” I asked.

She nodded. “That’s right. They don’t stay long.”

Glancing at my watch, I saw it was
9:45
and decided I had better cut this short and get on the road. I didn’t want to be in Mrs. Baker’s house when that
ten o’clock
call came. I thanked her for her help and headed for my Jeep, virtually certain now that Kermit Nagy and the Palestinian known as Kamal Nazari were one and the same. I also knew that he drove a big rig for Pat Intermaggio’s Star Express, and I had an idea about those friends who came calling.

Slipping back behind the wheel, I tried to reach Ted on his cell phone but got no answer. I left my number with his pager and headed in the direction of the motel. I had mixed emotions as I drove. At one level I was anxious for that call to come through, try for Jill’s release. But there was the risk of them keeping Jill and tricking me into giving up the scroll.

The telephone rang and I pulled into a nearby parking area. I didn’t want anything to interfere with my concentration. Checking the caller ID screen, I saw
UNAVAILABLE
. No pay phone. He was using a phone that did not transmit its number as part of the signal. But I had come prepared this time with a small minicassette recorder from Ted’s “tool kit.”