Curse of the Jade Lily: A McKenzie Novel

by David Housewright

  “Let the games begin,” I said.

  They both smiled, so I did, too.

  SEVEN

  Their opening move was the same as before—walk around a park, this time Loring Park on the edge of downtown Minneapolis.

  The money had been neatly packed in three medium-sized gym bags that I strapped to a portable dolly, the kind you see travelers pulling behind them at airports, with bungee cords. I had emptied the bags one at a time in the trunk of my Audi when they were first given to me on the bottom floor of the parking ramp that served the Midwest Farmers Insurance Group. I was taken aback by how wide the eyes of the three armed security guards had become when they saw all that cash. Obviously, they had no idea what they had been hired to protect. I carefully searched each bag and the bundles of cash for ink packs and tracers before repacking them, because I knew that’s what the artnappers would do. Mr. Donatucci kept telling me that I could trust him. Maybe so, but a lot of hands had handled both the money and the bags besides his, and I vowed I wasn’t going to get killed because someone along the line decided to be tough on crime. Besides, Donatucci had missed the third thief, and I was still concerned that he might be too old for this kind of play.

  I made my way out of downtown St. Paul to I-94 and drove west, crossing the river into Minneapolis. It was at the peak of rush hour and excruciatingly slow going. It didn’t help that the sun had set—only five forty-five and it might as well have been midnight. I watched carefully to see if any cars were following me. I decided they all were.

  I could sit almost anywhere and be comfortable with my own thoughts, except in traffic. After a few minutes of going nowhere very slowly, I started fidgeting, started squirming in my seat, started craning my neck this way and that in an attempt to see past the vehicles in front of me and find out what was causing the delay. In moments like that, not even the jazz they played on KBEM or one of my own CDs could soothe me. I understood road rage very well. Why I had never succumbed to it myself was a total mystery. Especially then. What was the matter with these drivers? Didn’t they know I was taking $1,270,000 in cash to a godless horde of thieves and killers! Finally the traffic began to loosen and we all started moving forward, picking up speed until we nearly matched the posted limit. I passed no accidents, no road construction zones, no disabled cars on the shoulder; saw nothing to explain the snarl. Which only made it worse.

  Then came the Lowry Hill Tunnel where the freeway narrowed. Scores of frustrated drivers were backed up once again, some staying on I-94, some shifting to I-394, and some, like me, carefully picking their way across several lanes of unyielding traffic to reach the exit shared by Hennepin and Lyndale avenues. It was as if the artnappers had deliberately chosen a time and place guaranteed to make sure I was in the best frame of mind for a gunfight, which certainly would have been one-sided since I wasn’t carrying a gun as per instructions.

  Eventually I parked the Audi on Willow Street in the shadow of a brownstone apartment building on the east edge of the park, not far from a coffeehouse. I left the engine running but turned off the radio. Enter Loring Park at the Willow and Fifteenth Street entrance, they had instructed. Enter at 6:27 P.M. Not 6:15, not 6:30, 6:27, which convinced me that the artnappers were purposely messing with me.

  At 6:23, I left the Audi and its warm interior and heated seats. The wind and cold immediately reminded me that it was winter in Minnesota. I felt goose bumps up and down my body—even the most seasoned Minnesotan sometimes needs a moment or two to adjust—but they soon went away.

  I stepped behind my car. There was ample space between my bumper and the vehicle parked directly behind me. Because of the heaps of snow and ice thrown up onto the boulevard by the plows, we were both parked several feet away from the curb, which narrowed the roadway and put sideview mirrors in jeopardy. A narrow path through the mound of snow began where the other car’s front bumper ended and led to the sidewalk.

  There was plenty of traffic, both vehicle and pedestrian, much more than you would expect on what was ostensibly a side street. When I was sure there was none close at hand, I popped the trunk, using the remote control key chain, and muscled the dolly and the gym bags out, and I do mean muscled. The dolly, bags, and money together weighed over a hundred pounds, and as has already been established, I’ve been letting myself go lately. Looking carefully right and left, wishing I had ignored the instructions about the gun, I grabbed hold of the handle and wheeled the heavy dolly across the street to the entrance of the park.

  Instead of shoveling or snowblowing the many trails that circled the small lake and traversed the park, the city had plowed them so they were much wider than they would have been normally and were covered with packed ice. The wheels on the dolly didn’t so much spin as they skidded behind me as I followed the trails. Sometimes the wheels found a rut or a chunk of ice and I had to yank the heavy dolly forward with both hands. Walk clockwise around the lake until you reach the Loring Park Community Arts Center, they told me, so I did.

  Loring Park was established one hundred thirty years ago. It’s bordered on the east and south by expensive condominiums, apartments, office buildings, and that bastion of discontent, the Woman’s Club of Minneapolis. On the west, across Lyndale, are the Walker Art Center, the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden, Lowry Hill, and, behind that, the very wealthy, very contented Kenwood neighborhood. On the north you’ll find a number of restaurants, art galleries, and clubs housed in a series of buildings that are nearly as old as the park itself, as well as the Minneapolis Community and Technical College. Looming above it all is the mighty century-old dome of the magnificent Basilica of St. Mary’s.

  Yet despite its high-tone neighbors, Loring Park is more than a little creepy. The lights aren’t what they could be, and the shadows they cast hold a menacing quality despite the bright city skyline that hangs above them. Some people call it “whoring park” because of its reputation as a prime site for late-night hookups. When I was a kid, it was also known as a spot where gay men would cruise other gay men, especially after the bars closed. Suburbanites would drive up and down Willow and Fifteenth, point at a man, any man, and say, “There’s one.” That was a long time ago, though. The Twin Cities Gay Pride Festival is held in Loring Park now.

  I once heard a story that when the city temporarily drained the lake a couple of decades back, they discovered the remains of at least twenty bodies settled in the soft bottom. It was said that most of them were allegedly deposited there by Isadore Blumenfeld, alias Kid Cann, who ran the rackets in Minneapolis until he was arrested for violating the Mann Act and jury tampering in the early sixties. I presume the story was exaggerated. On the other hand, last November they found a human skull in the marshy area around the dock that juts into the lake, and as far as I knew, forensic anthropologists still haven’t determined its age, sex, or race, much less who it had belonged to.

  In any case, the people I encountered did little to contradict the park’s checkered past. I counted at least five meth addicts chilling on the metal benches that faced the lake. One kid strolled by cradling a bottle of Grey Goose vodka. “Time to get my goose on,” he said before disappearing up a trail that led to the park’s horseshoe pitch. In the distance I heard a flute—there’s always a white guy playing the flute, always.

  Even the black squirrels in Loring Park are overly aggressive. They’re insanely obese because people give them food despite the signs requesting that park visitors please refrain from feeding the animals, and if you don’t have a snack to share when they saunter by, they can become downright hostile.

  I did as I was told, circling the lake, my feet crunching on the ice beneath them. I passed the horseshoe pitch, crossed the concrete and metal bridge, and skirted the tennis courts, the fountain, and the park’s sleeping garden. Somewhere along the way I started to shiver. I had worn my Sorels, a thick leather coat, leather gloves, and a knit hat with the emblem of the John Beargrease Sled Dog Marathon, which I pulled down over my ears. I was still cold. Ye
t, despite the weather, there were a surprising number of people in the park. Individuals cutting through on their way to or from work. Couples strolling while holding hands. Men and women engaged in a brisk walk. Still others jogging, which always amazed me, people jogging in the cold, although—I patted my stomach—it wouldn’t kill me to go for a long run.

  Finally I reached the Loring Park Community Arts Center. It was a long snowball’s throw from the Willow and Fifteenth Street entrance; I had circled nearly the entire park. I had no doubt the thieves had seen me clearly, although I had not seen them. The arts center was closed. It was only open from 1:00 to 5:00 P.M. in the winter, although its rooms were available to rent anytime. There was a metal bench near the building, where I had been ordered to sit and wait. Fortunately, the bench was empty. I don’t know what I would have done if it had been occupied. You do not confront people in Loring Park, and if you witness a confrontation between others, you do not intervene.

  I sat with the dolly and the gym bags positioned between my legs. My hand rested on the handle at the top. I did not remove my hand once, not even to flex my frigid fingers. People passed me. I nodded at those who nodded at me first. Most ignored my existence; no one spoke. My head was on a swivel, turning this way and that as I observed the people in the park. Most appeared merely as shapes in the darkness, becoming discernible only when they passed under a light. No one approached me. An hour passed, by my watch. My toes were becoming numb no matter how much I squished them together inside my boots. I was beginning to think that this was a trial run—the thieves putting me out there and watching to see if I followed directions, to learn if I was working with the cops to set a trap. That’s when I saw him.

  A man dressed in black had been sitting on a bench about a hundred yards from me. I had noticed him before when he left the bench, walked a quarter way around the lake, and then came back. I thought nothing of it at the time. Now he was doing it again. I watched him intently. Distance and night hid his face from me, yet there was something about the cut of his clothes and the way he moved … My hand tightened on the handle.

  He returned to the bench, sitting so that he was facing the arts center. I realized then that he was watching me watching him. I forced myself to look away, to keep scanning the park, to study the people who approached on the trail and then moved away. Yet my eyes kept coming back to him. Another half hour passed.

  “C’mon, pal,” I said aloud. “It’s cold out here.”

  He couldn’t possibly have heard, yet he rose just the same and started walking toward me. I forced myself to look away, examining all the approaches to the park bench to make sure he didn’t have accomplices closing in at the same time. He seemed to be alone. I looked back. He was eighty yards away and still just a dark form moving. I kept scanning the area. Sixty yards and he crossed a shaft of light that fought its way into the park from the streetlamp on Willow. I saw his face clearly, if only for a moment.

  “Sonuvabitch,” I said. “What is he doing here?”

  I stood up.

  Lieutenant Scott Noehring of the Minneapolis Police Department’s Forgery Fraud Unit was now fifty yards away and walking purposely toward me. His hands were in his pockets.

  “Sonuvabitch,” I said again.

  Awareness of my vulnerability hit me like a sledgehammer. Noehring told me his plan was to kill the artnappers and steal the ransom, leaving me alive with the Lily. Dammit, what was stopping him from killing me and stealing the money, blaming it on the thieves, screw the Jade Lily?

  I did a quick three-sixty. No one was approaching my position, yet there were still plenty of people in the park. At least one person was walking close behind Noehring.

  Start screaming, my inner voice told me. Scream Noehring’s name, his rank, his position with the cops.

  If enough heads turned, I told myself, maybe Noehring would think twice about taking his hands out of his pockets. In the meantime, running was always a good idea. It’s harder to shoot a moving target.

  I tightly gripped the handle of the dolly and half-turned toward the trail leading to the exit. Before I could move, before I could scream, Noehring’s hands jerked out of his pockets. His arms flew open and his back arched and twisted to his left as if he had been punched in the shoulder. He stumbled a few feet toward me. His head snapped violently forward, his chin bouncing off his chest, and he collapsed to his knees. His body kept twisting to the side as he fell against the ice, sliding a few feet.

  The dark shape that had been following close behind Noehring quickly pivoted and went off in the opposite direction, not running, but not strolling either.

  I had not heard a sound.

  My instinct was to hasten to Noehring’s side. I fought against it. I was responsible for the money, and this could have been a diversion in an attempt to take it away from me. Instead, I looked around, never letting go of the dolly’s handle. No one was running, no one was behaving oddly; there were no neon arrows pointing at anyone and flashing KILLER. I started jogging toward the park’s exit, pulling the dolly and its weighty cargo behind me. I slipped several times going up the hill. I heard a woman make a low scream as if she were loosening up her throat for a much louder one. When it came—and yes, it was loud indeed—I glanced briefly behind me. A small group of people was gathering around Noehring’s prone body. I continued climbing the hill.

  I paused when I reached the exit. It was much brighter there. Cars cruised through the intersection of Willow and Fifteenth Street. Pedestrians crossed at the stoplight. I glanced behind me. No one seemed to be following, yet that didn’t convince me to slow down. I jogged across Willow, dodging traffic. I rolled the dolly to the Audi, maneuvering between my rear bumper and the front bumper of the vehicle parked behind me. Once there, I hit the button on my remote. The trunk popped open; the inside light flared.

  I did not realize anyone had been lurking there until a man appeared on the narrow path that cut through the mound of snow pushed up against the boulevard.

  “Don’t move,” he said.

  A gloved hand seized the handle of the dolly.

  “I’ll take that.”

  I saw the gun first. The trunk light reflected off a lightweight 9 mm manufactured by FN Herstal in the good ol’ USA, if that means anything to you. I always thought of it as a girl’s gun but kept the opinion to myself. Next I saw the grinning face of Tommy, Heavenly’s muscle, the one who had insulted me in the van. Screw it, I thought, the FNP-9 is a girl’s gun.

  Tommy shook the handle of the dolly.

  “Let go, McKenzie,” he said. “I’ll shoot you. I will.”

  When I didn’t release my grip he raised the gun so that it was pointed at my face.

  I released the dolly and slapped his hand to the left so the gun was pointing at nothing. I punched him in the throat just as hard as I could. He made a gurgling sound as I followed with an elbow to his mouth. I grabbed his arm and yanked him forward. He fell against the dolly, knocking it over. Dropping his gun, he brought one hand to his throat and tried to punch me with the other. I ducked under the blow, grabbed his upper arm, twisted to my left, and used his momentum to heave him over my hip and throw him into the street.

  He never saw the car that hit him, that drove his head against the ice-packed asphalt.

  * * *

  The 911 operator was confused. I tried to explain that I needed both police and an ambulance at Willow Street across from Loring Park. I gave her the address of the brownstone apartment building. I even told her where I was in relation to the coffeehouse. She kept insisting that someone else had already called about the incident in the park and police had been dispatched. I told her that this was a different matter and that it occurred outside the park. She didn’t seem to believe me. Possibly she was flustered by the young woman screaming a few feet away from me, the one who kept repeating, “It was an accident. He fell in front of my car.” Or perhaps it was the deep baritone of the brother on the sidewalk who was telling the woman—and anyon
e else who cared to listen—that it wasn’t her fault. “He didn’t fall. He was pushed.”

  Finally, “Let’s try this,” I said into the mic of my cell phone. “An officer is down.”

  “What?” the operator said.

  “The man who was shot in Loring Park was a police officer. The man who shot him is lying in the middle of Willow Street.”

  “Shit,” the operator said, which might not have been a very professional thing to say but hardly something you’d hold against her.

  * * *

  I had learned a long time ago to say as little as possible to as few people as possible in matters involving the police. Actually, I didn’t learn it so much as my attorney beat it into me. The people who had gathered around Tommy and the car that killed him were of no such mind, however. They had plenty to say. Some of it was even true.

  The young woman who hit Tommy was nearly hysterical with grief. She kept telling the police officers that the accident wasn’t her fault, that Tommy had jumped in front of her car. “Maybe it was suicide.” I felt terrible about the part I had played in causing her anguish, yet I did not attempt to console her. A witness—the brother who spoke up earlier—testified that he had witnessed Tommy and me struggling after he pulled a gun on me and that I threw him into the street. I had nothing to say to him, either, although I was grateful that he remembered the gun. I ignored the other witnesses who, taking the brother’s cue, claimed I had deliberately shoved Tommy in front of a speeding car, even though they were nowhere near when the incident occurred.

  The officers who responded to the call kept asking for a statement. I told them they should secure Tommy’s gun, which had slid beneath the back bumper of my Audi. Beyond that, I kept my mouth shut. By then, word of a cop killing had electrified the entire police department. To say the officers were angry at my refusal to cooperate would be like saying that the sun rose in the east—it really wasn’t open to debate. If there hadn’t been so many witnesses, I suspect I would have been “tuned up,” as they say. Instead, I was roughly cuffed and shoved in the back of a squad car.