“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.”
I answered with a curt, “Hello.”
“Listen carefully,” said the now-familiar voice. “Promptly at twelve o’clock, you will be in the parking area at the southern end of the Cool Springs mall, beyond the rear end of the Sears store, on the side toward I-65.”
That caught me by surprise. Cool Springs was the area’s largest conventional mall, but it was in the next county to the south, Williamson, and well outside the jurisdiction of the Metro Nashville Police. I didn’t have any friends in the Williamson County Sheriff's Department, either. I tried to soften the impact with my own demand.
“First things first,” I said. “Put my wife on the phone.”
I could hear muffled voices in the background. He was evidently holding his hand over the mouthpiece. After a long moment during which my nerves began to shred, I heard the click of an extension being lifted, then the sound of Jill’s voice.
“Greg?”
The relief was indescribable, like being reborn. “Thank God it’s you, Jill. Are you all right?”
“I think so.” Her voice sounded hesitant. “I haven’t been roughed up, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good. Just hang in there, babe.”
“Do you have the scroll?”
“I’ll pick it up as soon as we finalize the arrangements. Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of there if it’s the last thing we do. Remember Pearl Harbor?”
I knew her captors were listening, and that remark would strike them as strange. But I hoped it would reassure Jill, let her know I wasn’t in this alone. I emphasized “we” and counted on her remembering Ted Kennerly’s last visit. We had talked about an undercover investigation he and I had been involved in at Hickam Air Force Base in Honolulu. We laughed at how Ted showed up with a bunch of well-armed sailors, rescuing me just as I was about to get waylaid by smugglers aboard a launch at Pearl Harbor.
“Enough talk.” It was Kamal Nazari, or Kermit Nagy, breaking in. “Be at Cool Springs at twelve with the scroll or your wife will die. And come alone.”
Closing my eyes, I saw Jill as I had left her yesterday morning, her face wreathed in a broad smile. I hated this man for what he was doing to her. If I had a chance to kill him, he’d take all my rounds in the gut. “What will you be driving?” I asked.
“Just be in your Jeep Cherokee. We will find you.”
The location he had specified was at the far end of the mall, the most remote section of the parking area, likely to contain the fewest number of vehicles around the complex. I would have preferred the opposite end, which was always full of cars.
“I’m not real familiar with Cool Springs,” I said. “I know the parking lot outside of Hechts, though. Why don’t we meet there?”
“No changes.”
He hung up.
It was 10:05. I had an hour and fifty-five minutes to come up with a workable plan. I reached for my smokes. Old habits die hard and come back easy.
Chapter 20
After spearing the number pad on my cell phone, I caught David Wolfson at his office. He sounded breathless and harried.
“What the hell happened?” he asked. “You were to come back and pick up that damned scroll. What if somebody–”
“Take it easy, David,” I said. “Nobody is after you. We found the guy’s house but he had left. Apparently the Temple Alliance people were onto him.”
“Well, I don’t like it. J. Q. is dead, your wife is missing. How do I know they–”
“I called to see about taking the scroll off your hands,” I said.
“Oh. It isn’t here. I left it at home.”
“Did you enter the wording in your computer?”
“In my laptop. But I haven’t had time to do anything with it here. We have a major project three days overdue and the client is calling every hour on the hour. And I need to get by the funeral home where they have J Q. God, what a tragedy.”
“How can I get the scroll?” I asked.
“I have a key hidden just outside the apartment door.”
Welcome, burglars, I thought. Turned out he used one of those fake rocks stuck among a few stones in a garden plot.
As I switched off the phone, I glanced up and saw that the bright sun, which had looked so promising an hour ago, was now hidden by a growing mass of clouds. I hadn’t taken time to watch or listen to any news and had no idea what the weather was supposed to do. I thought of Jill, how she checked the weather conditions and forecasts painstakingly before every takeoff. I thought about how much I missed her and felt my eyes burning as I drove toward the motel.
I was just pulling into a parking slot when Ted called.
“Find any trace of our man?” I asked, holding out little hope.
“I found where he wasn’t. He was nowhere around Star Express.”
“Well, I have some good news,” I said. “I talked to Jill.”
“Thank God! Is she okay?”
“Seems to be. They’re supposed to bring her to Cool Springs at noon.”
I played the tape of our conversation and plans for the rendezvous.
“I have no clue where he was calling from,” I said when I switched off the recorder. “Did they give you any idea at Star Express where he might have gone?”
“Claimed he was taking a few days off after a Vegas run. I used the old insurance investigator routine, said I had a few questions about him. The lady gave me a look and said I was the second bunch inquiring into Mr. Nagy this morning.”
“The second bunch?”
“Yeah. Two guys who sounded remarkably like your friends from the Temple Alliance.”
“I wonder if they’ve had any better luck finding the Palestinians?”
“Probably not. I was handed over to the boss, Mr. Intermaggio.”
“Great. He’s the prototype arrogant Yankee from New Jersey. I’ve often wondered if he had Mafia connections.”
Ted gave a short, dry laugh. “He’s a consummate liar, anyway. From the picture he painted of Kermit Nagy, the man will soon be up for sainthood. Intermaggio claimed the guy was Lebanese.”
“He’s about as Lebanese as I am.”
“Supposedly, he’s highly thought of by his countrymen. Intermaggio said they worked together closely. You turn up anything on Sheridan?”
“One lead,” I said. I told him about Mrs. Baker’s description of the post-trip visitors.
&nbs
p; “You thinking drug dealers?”
“Sure has the sound of it. Junkets all around the country. Tractor-trailers that could haul lots of things besides sound equipment and scenery. He brings it home and the dealers drop by.”
“And bring their dough.”
“Precisely. And look how Intermaggio can launder through Star Express. Do you have a DEA contact in Nashville?”
“Sure. Carlos Sanchez. I’ll call him and see if they have anything on these two.”
“I have to go by David Wolfson’s apartment to pick up the scroll,” I said. “I’d like you to get on out to Cool Springs and take a look at the place. I imagine they’ll be there early. Try to pick out the players. I’ll give you a shout on the radio when I arrive.”
On my way to Wolfson’s apartment, I stopped at a Wal-Mart to pick up a plastic canister about the size of the one the Jaffa scroll guy had sold me for four bucks. I wanted a decoy in hand until I was sure about Mr. Nazari/Nagy’s intentions. It was a cynicism from years of dealing with lowlifes.
By the time I headed out I-65 past Brentwood, the sky had become a mass of dark clouds. It had turned into a bleak winter day. But the real chill came from getting ready to go up against Jill’s captors. I would get her back or it was a fake out.
Noontime traffic roared steadily in both directions as I approached the Moores Lane exit. This would lead into the big bi-level mall known as Cool Springs Galleria, the Nashville area’s largest until Opry Mills came along. I switched on the radio and called Ted. The clock on the dash showed 11:50.
“I’ve got a parking spot behind Sears,” he advised. “I’ve seen two cars cruise the area in the last thirty minutes. One, an old model gray Ford, circled onto the perimeter road and parked at the edge of the lower level lot. I checked it with my binocs and saw a man sitting behind the wheel.”
“He’s probably looking for me,” I said. “Our man won’t show until I’m there. Did you reach your DEA contact?”
“He was out. I left my number.”
“Well, maybe we won’t need any more help,” I said, as I pulled onto the exit ramp. “Maybe Nazari will take the scroll, hand over Jill, and we’ll all go our merry way.”
Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4 Page 11