“Yes. No. I don’t know. Maybe.”
This time it was my turn to sigh dramatically.
“I’m not sure about this, Mr. Donatucci. The artnappers killed at least two guys, and one of them was police. Do we want to reward them for that?”
“Do we know that for sure?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do we know that the artnappers killed Tarpley and Noehring?”
“Who else?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? Who else had motive?”
I decided I was too tired to play Mr. Donatucci’s mind games and told him so. “Remember at the museum when I was told that it wasn’t my job to catch the thieves or to solve the crime?” I said. “I’m holding you to that.”
Mr. Donatucci said that he would contact me—and I should contact him—if the thieves called. Then he hung up.
I stood in the empty, silent kitchen for a moment. My entire body longed for sleep. Yet I decided to make breakfast first. It wasn’t that I was hungry—although I was—as much as that I felt a need to do something. So I fried up a skillet of scrambled eggs with plenty of hot sausage, jalape?o chilies, green onions, tomato, and cilantro.
I didn’t taste any of it.
The phone rang. I rolled across my bed to answer it. It was 10:00 A.M. I had all of four hours of sleep.
“McKenzie,” I said.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a man’s voice asked.
I hung up the phone. I rolled over and shut my eyes. The phone rang again. I gave it six rings before I answered, catching it just before the call rolled over to voice mail.
“McKenzie,” I said.
“Don’t you dare hang up on me again,” the voice said.
I hung up. I stretched, yawned, and waited. Sure enough, the phone rang a third time. This time when I answered it, I said, “Good manners are how we show respect for one another.”
There was a long pause.
“Mr. McKenzie,” the voice said finally. “This is Jonathan Hemsted of the U.S. State Department.” Apparently he needed to remind me of that. “I hope I did not catch you at a bad time.”
“It’s been a long night,” I said.
“Yes, I know. I would like to speak to you about your long night.”
“Why?”
“Could you meet us at our hotel suite in, say, an hour’s time?”
“Us?”
“Mr. Pozderac will be sitting in.”
“Where is the hotel?”
He told me. I hung up without saying good-bye. Like I said, good manners are how we show our respect for one another.
The hotel was located west of Minneapolis on the I-394 strip within easy shuttle distance of Cargill, UnitedHealthcare, Minnesota Disposal and Recycling, General Mills, and a couple of other Fortune 500 companies. I crossed the lobby and caught the attention of a pretty clerk at the front desk. I kept my leather coat closed so she wouldn’t see the 9 mm I was wearing behind my right hip. She smiled brightly and asked how she could help me.
“Mr. Hemsted, please,” I said.
She accessed her computer. The smile became a frown.
“I’m sorry, sir, we do not have a Mr. Hemsted registered.”
“Jonathan Hemsted. H-E-M-S-T-E-D.”
“No sir, I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps it’s under the name Branko Pozderac. Please don’t ask me to spell it.”
She checked again.
“I’m sorry, sir, there is no Mr. Branko Pozderac registered with us, either.”
“Are you sure? I spoke to the man an hour ago. He said he had a suite here.”
“A suite—” She checked her computer a third time. “Oh, I am so sorry, sir. Of course, both Mr. Hemsted and Mr. Pozderac are here. They’re staying in the suite owned by MDR. Please forgive me.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“A number of companies rent rooms and suites from us year-round for their business associates. We track their guests differently.”
“I understand.”
“Would you like me to call up and announce your arrival, or would you prefer to use the house phone?”
She pointed at a red telephone on a low round table surrounded by several chairs in the center of the lobby.
“If it’s not too much trouble, please call up. Tell whoever answers the phone that McKenzie will be waiting in the bar.”
“No trouble at all, Mr. McKenzie.”
“Thank you for your consideration.”
I turned away from the desk, reconnoitered my position, and then headed for the bar just off the lobby. As I did so, I wondered, MDR? How did Hemsted and Pozderac score a luxury suite owned by a waste management company?
Pozderac drank whiskey, Hemsted drank wine, and I had a beer. I was sure that there was something significant about our individual tastes in alcohol, I just didn’t know what. Pozderac also ordered a plate of buffalo-style chicken wings because he was hungry and lunch was a good hour away. He ate them without benefit of a napkin, a transgression that seemed to offend Hemsted greatly.
“First, allow me to offer you my sincere condolences at the passing of your friend yesterday,” Hemsted said.
“You are referring to Lieutenant Noehring,” I said.
“Yes, of course.”
