Secret of the Scroll (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) (17 page)

“Ted,” I yelled into the mike, “follow the truck!”

As it sped away, I saw the man in the gray Ford had stopped to pick up the fake scroll can. He jumped back inside and I got off two quick shots. My hand was stinging where it had struck the asphalt, however, and my aim was off. The Ford darted through a line of cars and disappeared behind Sears.

Chapter
21

As I got to my feet, dusting myself off, I saw two women beside a car across the parking area staring in my direction. One appeared to have a cell phone planted against her ear. I shoved the pistol back under my jacket and hurried toward my Jeep. If they were calling 911, I needed to get away from here fast.

I was shaking from stress as well as the fall. It was the first time I had fired in anger. As a professional, I was trained to react with reason, to use lethal force with discipline, not emotion. Hindsight told me if I had shot Nazari I would be guilty of murder. But I hadn’t. I also had not freed Jill. I felt anger and distress and disappointment. I was emotionally drained.

A quick check found nothing broken or badly bruised. Scrambling into the Jeep, I jammed my key into the ignition lock and cranked the starter. I spun around and sped toward the rear of Sears, screeching tires unmercifully. A slow rain had begun to spatter on the windshield, and as I swung past the building, I nearly clipped the long nose of a yellow Peterbilt tractor that was inching its trailer toward the loading dock.

I slowed as I circled away from the endless stretch of buildings. At the first exit, I darted in front of a startled little old lady in a Cadillac and swung onto
Mallory Lane
. Feeling fairly safe from any encounter with a sheriff’s patrolman now, I cruised along Mallory while keeping a close watch for any sign of the gray Ford. Right now it was my best lead back to Jill’s Palestinian kidnappers.

The search was fruitless. I combed the area of strip centers along the opposite side from Cool Springs and found nothing. I pulled off beside a computer store to check my left arm. It had begun to hurt around the elbow, but I decided there was nothing serious enough to slow down for now. I lit a cigarette and stared at the ashtray. Several butts, and the cell phone plug in the lighter was smeared with ash. I was hooked again. I stared out at the gloomy afternoon.

Hopefully Ted had fared better. I tried contacting him by radio but got no response. Apparently he was out of range. I retrieved my cell phone from the passenger seat and punched in his number. Moments later, he answered.

“Are you tailing them?” I asked.

“I was.” He sounded dispirited. “They headed north on I-65. I lost them in traffic at the
Harding Place
exit. Another vehicle got in between me and the truck. There was a wreck just off the intersection. They got through, but I was stopped when the cops shut things down.”

“Did you show them your ID?”

“Of course. But by the time I could explain my way out of there, it was too late.”

That deflated me a bit. “I lost the guy in the gray Ford. I had hoped he might lead us to the others.”

“Thank God I got a license number off the panel truck. It’s from
Nevada
. I was just about to check it out with THP.”

“Get onto it. Are you still around
Harding Place
?”

“Close.”

“Head back this way and let’s meet at Shoney’s on
Old Hickory Boulevard
.”

I maneuvered my way back to
Moores Lane
and I-65, where traffic was moving at its usual hectic pace. Most drivers showed little concern for the rain. As car and truck tires kicked up a fog-like spray, I kept seeing that pleading look in Jill’s eyes as she kneeled in the doorway of the truck. I was reminded of a story she once told me.

At around the age of ten, she was playing with two other girls at a friend’s house when somebody came up with the idea of acting out a story they had heard their parents talking about. It was the kidnapping of a young girl up in
Kentucky
that was all over the front page of the newspapers. As the youngest of the three, Jill was cast as the victim. They took her to the musty, stone-walled basement, which to her resembled a genuine dungeon, and tied her to a chair, hands behind her back. When Jill complained that the game had gone far enough, they tried to untie the damp rope, but the knots only seemed to get tighter. In a panic, the two playmates ran back upstairs for help, leaving Jill alone and frightened in the half-dark basement.

The mother of the girl who lived in the house had gone next door, and it took nearly half an hour before she could be found. By that time Jill had become hysterical, thinking she had been abandoned, imagining all kinds of deadly creatures ready to crawl over her.

It must have left her with the same feeling she’d had in the back of that panel truck at Cool Springs. And now I had failed to rescue her. The thought made me sick.

When I pulled into the parking area at Shoney’s Restaurant just off the interstate, Ted’s Mercury was already there.

I found him at a table with two cups of coffee waiting.

“Thanks,” I said. I dropped heavily into a chair and lit a cigarette. “Thanks for sitting in the smoking section. Get anything from the Highway Patrol?”

Ted tugged at his tie and unbuttoned his collar. With his navy pants and blazer, he looked more like a young businessman than the commando he had resembled earlier. “They just called back. Seems the number belonged to a Buick involved in a fatal crash in
Las Vegas
. The dead guy was tied to a drug ring. The plate was missing when the cops arrived to investigate.”

“Very interesting,” I said. “Makes the drug angle with our Mr. Nagy sound a bit more credible, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. THP is on the lookout for the panel truck.”

“Good. THP I can deal with, but I’m not anxious to get Metro involved.”

“You know the routine, Boss. THP will notify Metro.”

I was about to unload a new volley aimed at Detective Tremaine and his buddies when Ted’s cell phone rang. It was Sanchez, the DEA agent. As I listened, Ted mentioned the new case he was working in
Tullahoma
, then inquired about anything DEA might know regarding Kermit Nagy with Star Express. From the way Ted rolled his eyes, I knew he’d struck a nerve.

When he powered off the phone, Ted looked across and smiled. “They had a tip about Intermaggio’s operation recently but haven’t turned up anything yet. They suspect money laundering. Carlos was interested in the Nagy angle, said it might be just the opening they needed.”

It was the first positive thing I’d heard all day. “Good. I hope they bury him under the jail.”

“Won’t be any help to you. It could take weeks or months to build a case.”

“I know. But at least somebody with all the right resources is going to be on his tail. And I’ve no doubt that it involves Intermaggio.” The banker’s son-in-law was probably involved in the scroll affair, also, I thought. It made me even more convinced that he was the party responsible for putting the police on my case. He could have sent somebody out to move Jill’s car over to
Andrew Jackson Parkway
. “I’ll bet Pat Intermaggio knows where Nagy can be found,” I said. “And that means he knows where Jill is.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“One of my hunches.” Ted had been exposed to his share of those over the years.

Ted drained his coffee cup. “So what do you propose to do?”

“The only thing I
can
do,” I said. “Have a chat with the man.”

“Want me to go along?”

“Just for backup. You can wait in the car.”

I had no idea where this would lead, but I could see no alternative. I had to find Kermit Nagy as quickly as possible.

“Boss?”

“Yes?”

“You fired your weapon in anger.”

“Yes?”

“So how are you?”

“Okay. Don’t mother me, Ted.”

“Fair enough.”

Chapter
22

Star Express was located in a cluster of concrete buildings at the end of a short street just beyond downtown, next to an exit from I-40. Ted parked his Mercury at a convenience market and climbed into my Jeep. The rain had turned to a slow drizzle, leaving the streets just wet enough to create havoc.

A few over-the-road tractors sat near one of the buildings in the fenced compound. All were painted a royal purple with a large white star on each door. Several long trailers were parked nearby, also purple, with
STAR
EXPRESS
emblazoned on the sides among a galaxy of white stars. I pulled up to the office building.

“Good luck,” Ted said. “Are you going to take your cell phone with you, in case you need to call for help?”

“I don’t want the little fart even thinking I might need help,” I said. I had been working up a nice rage over the prospect that Pat Intermaggio may have been involved in Jill’s abduction. I dropped the phone on the seat.

On the outside, Star Express was a colorless gray, but beyond the door it glowed with unexpected decor. If Harlan Walker Blackford had provided the funds, Intermaggio must have doled out a generous portion to some Music Row interior decorator. The purple of the trucks was reflected in thick, velvet drapes and the star theme was carried out on the walls in both five-pointed silver emblems and handsomely framed photos of
Nashville
music personalities.

A short-haired blonde at the desk took my name and said she would inquire if Mr. Intermaggio could see me. The clock on the wall showed
1:20
. Two hours and forty minutes until the deadline Detective Adamson had set. No matter. If I hadn’t recovered Jill by then, I would be ready to call out the National Guard.

I was sure Intermaggio would enjoy leaving me to cool my heels for a bit, but curiosity must have got the better of him. After about ten minutes, I was ushered into his office. The desk was a massive cherry piece and to one side of it a sofa and chairs were arranged in front of a blazing fireplace.

Intermaggio waited behind his desk and let me come to him. Though several inches shorter, he easily outweighed me by thirty or so pounds. It was concentrated in his arms and his belly. He wore slacks and dress shirt and he had the half-smiling look of a mischievous kid.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Mr. McKenzie?” he asked.

He didn’t offer his hand. This was a hostile encounter. I noticed a large photograph on one wall of a Star Express eighteen-wheel rig serving as a backdrop for a staff gathering. I stepped toward the picture.

“You have an interesting business here, Mr. Intermaggio,” I said. I checked the faces, where I found the boss grinning from his center position. “This made recently?”

“Back in the summer.”

I finally found what I was looking for. The third face to Intermaggio’s right matched the one I had confronted in the Sears parking lot at Cool Springs a little over an hour earlier. I turned to face him.

“I met one of your drivers a little while ago,” I said. “Kermit Nagy. He was in quite a hurry when he left and I need to talk to him. I thought you could probably put us in touch.”

There was no hint of a smile. “Kermit is off for a few days. I have no idea where he might be. What business did you have with him?”

“He’s holding my wife hostage. I want her back.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re crazy, McKenzie.”

“Nagy–or Nazari, was to swap my wife for a parchment scroll I brought back from
Israel
.” I moved to his desk and leaned both hands on it. “He brought some of his pals with him and tried to take me, too.”

Intermaggio pushed his chair back and away. “You’re wackier than you were when you made an ass of yourself over the Peterson case.”

That did it. There was a gold pen set on the desk. I grabbed the long-handled pen and pointed it at his left eye. “You know what happened. It was you who tipped the police that my wife was missing. You tried to set me up.”

“Get that damned pen out of my face or I call the police and bring charges. Kermit Nagy is a good employee and a law-abiding citizen. Get your sorry ass out of here.”

The phone rang on his desk. He grabbed it angrily. “What is it?”

His voice tensed up. “Put him on the line.”

After a moment, he spoke into the phone. “This is Pat Intermaggio, Sergeant. What happened?”

He stared at me. “You’re sure it was Kermit?”

I stared back.

He hung up the phone. “Kermit Nagy was killed in an auto accident.”

The words hit me hard. “My wife was with him,” I said. “What happened to 
her
?”

“I don’t know. The sergeant said nothing about anybody else.”

“Where did it happen?”

“All I know is they want me at the Medical Examiner’s office. If you want anything further, I suggest you call the police . . . if you’re not afraid to. Now get out.”