Secret of the Scroll (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) (6 page)

I was about to realize how unjust and destructive things could really get.

Chapter
6

I walked into the bedroom with a cup of coffee, set it on a bedside table and opened the flowered drapes. Sunshine streamed through the French doors and played over the blanket that covered the king-size bed.

I looked out and took a deep breath. This was the time of day I would once have sat on the deck with a cup of coffee and enjoyed my first morning cigarette. I’ll have to admit Jill never enjoyed it. She tried for years to convince me it was a habit that would one day kill me. But I had started smoking in college, developing the habit of lighting up to free my mind to concentrate on reviewing for quizzes and exams. Later I would use a smoke to cope with a troubling question in an investigation. I thought about trying to stop a few times, but it wasn’t until back in the summer that something brought it all home with agonizing finality. My closest friend in the Air Force, Lt. Col. Breezy Hollo, a lovable Hungarian with more talent and drive than anyone I’d ever known, flew in on leave and spent a few days with us. We sat out on the lawn for hours and talked and laughed and puffed our smokes. I noticed Breezy had a nasty cough but thought nothing of it. A few weeks later I got the message: he was dead of lung cancer.

When Jill did not stir. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty. Your coffee’s waiting.”

She rolled onto her back, yawning with full sound effects. “What time is it? My, that sun is bright.”

“What do you expect at
ten o’clock
in the morning?”

“How long have you been up?” She pushed her pillow against the headboard and scrunched into a sitting position.

“Since about nine,” I said. I handed her the coffee cup. “I walked up to the road and got the paper. They started delivering it again right on schedule. I don’t know why I still pay for the damned thing, though, after what they did to me.”

She reached over to give my hand a squeeze. “You want to know if they’re talking about you again. But they’ve got plenty of other dirt to dig in now. Maybe they’ll leave you alone.”

“I should hope so. What are your plans today? I guess you’ll need to get in a little flying time soon.” She kept her Cessna 172 at
Cornelia
Fort
Air
Park
, not far from Hermitage.

“I’ll get in a few hours in a day or so. I’d better head to the grocery this morning.”

I pushed myself up from the side of the bed. “Since we have no milk, I guess it’ll be instant oatmeal for breakfast. As soon as I eat, I’ll go over to Sam’s and get your bag.”

“Good.” She picked up the coffee cup and gave me a sly grin. “Who knows, I might entertain a shopping trip later, if you insist on dragging me off to the mall.”

“Who’s dragging whom?” I said.

It was after eleven when I arrived at the Gannons’ brick ranch with its manicured lawn. Even this time of year, when the grass had stopped growing, it looked trim and green, bordered by white and purple pansies. I envied Sam’s dedication to his yard work, but the operative word there was “work.” Bending over a spade did not appeal to me.

Sam ushered me inside. He had all of his travel brochures and guidebooks in one stack on the dining room table, rolls of film from the trip arranged in another area and a conglomeration of souvenirs beyond that.

“Nobody can say you didn’t make it to
Israel
,” I said.

Sam shrugged. “You’re the one that documented it all with your movies. I can’t wait to see what you shot.”

“I’ll have to do some work with it first. I bought a new program recently that will let me edit it right in the computer.”

“I haven’t even mastered e-mail yet.”

I laughed. “I’m sure it’s a lot easier than flying airplanes.”

“That reminds me.” Sam motioned me to follow him. “Come on in the den. I want to show you something in the new
Air Force Magazine
.”

The colorful monthly put out by the Air Force Association runs a lot of nostalgia pieces on musty old wars designed to jog moss-covered memories. Sam had found an article about a B-26 bomb run back in 1952. The mission involved the 8th Bomb Squadron, the outfit he had flown with out of Kunsan Air Base in
South Korea
, known then as K-8. It was a hairy tale of one engine shot up and a wing ventilated by 30-caliber fire during a bombing run.

An
Oklahoma
farm boy, Sam had gone into the Air Force right out of ag school. After
Korea
, he graduated to KC-135 tankers, eventually moving up to skipper a monstrous C-5 transport. He had met Wilma at the
U.
of
Oklahoma
, where she was in a nursing program. They were married following the Korean unpleasantness and had lived a nomadic service life for even longer than Jill and me.

Sam got wound up telling war stories and before I realized how long I’d been there, Wilma walked in and planted her hands on her hips.

“So, you staying for lunch?”

I glanced at my watch. “Christ, it’s
one o’clock
. I’d better get on home. Surprised Jill hasn’t called looking for me.”

“I saw her at the store,” Wilma said. “That was well over an hour ago. She was talking to a lady with two little kids.”

Like Jill, Wilma was a
Nashville
native. The two had become close friends after we joined
Gethsemane
United
Methodist
Church
. Wilma had grown up on what she called the more plebeian side of town. She liked to kid Jill about attending
Hillsboro
High School
. “We called them ‘tea sippers,’” she had said with a laugh.

I finally did what I came for–picked up Jill’s carryon bag–and headed back toward
Chandler Road
in my mud-brown Jeep Grand Cherokee.

With a five-acre plot, I fancied myself something of a gentleman farmer. But what I managed to grow best was weeds. The Jeep could be used to haul mowers, timbers and fertilizer. Jill preferred a sporty-looking red Camry.

I was surprised to find no sign of the Camry in the driveway or the garage. The unaccustomed chill brought a shiver as I stepped out of the Jeep behind the house, and a stiff gust of wind tugged at me. Something was wrong. Deep down, I knew it before I stepped into the garage. All the old fears burst loose. The
OSI
instincts raged full bore as I ran for the door.

7

I came in through the back way and confronted chaos. Canisters on the countertop had been tipped over. One containing cookies had fallen off. Chocolate chip chunks were scattered on the floor. Cabinet doors were open. Some swift hand had swept aside bottles and tins of spice. The air reeked of vanilla.

Funny how old habits come back. For me they came in a rush, leaving my comfortable world of retirement in shambles. Years of
OSI
training and experience, untold hours of probing and digging and fitting pieces together landed squarely on my shoulders. Annoying incidents in the
Holy Land
and beyond fell into a pattern–getting singled out at the border, the luggage labels, the missing luggage locks. I looked in other rooms. Books knocked from shelves. Drawers hanging open. My camera bag was unzipped, but the camcorder was untouched.

That’s when I first called out for Jill.

I got no answer. I ran from room to room, then took the stairs two at a time for the bedroom. No Jill. But there was my Beretta in the bedside table drawer. It was a chopped version of the 9mm weapon I carried in the Air Force. I jacked a round into the chamber, put the safety on and slid it into my belt. It had a comforting feel.

I called out again for Jill, then headed back downstairs. That’s when I saw the grocery bag tucked away beside the refrigerator. Jill ordinarily placed the bags on the kitchen table. The fridge revealed a half finished job of putting away orange juice, milk, chicken breasts, onions–she was planning a favorite meal of mine. I fumbled for my chewing gum, then headed for the couch. I had to think, get my wheels turning.

They had Jill.

I didn’t know who or why, but they had her. They’d be getting in touch.
Soon.

My first impulse was to call the police, but I hesitated.
I had no proof she’d been taken. She could have gone back to the store for something she forgot. The house trashing could have occurred after she left. I didn’t believe it for an instant, but that’s what a busy detective would say.

I had to report the break-in to the cops
, though
. I stroked the butt of the Beretta. Think.

There was an outside chance of a note, but no such luck. Wilma Gannon had talked about seeing Jill with a woman and two kids, twins. No doubt her young friend from across the way. But no go.
Someone
had taken
Jill
. Anger and fear gripped me. Had they seen me come up the driveway? They’d be getting in touch soon.

Anytime now . . .

I dialed the police non-emergency number, putting the plan together as I dialed. I gave my name and address and reported we’d had a break-in. The house had been vandalized. Play to the obvious, Greg. Meantime, think.

“What did they take?” the officer asked.

“I’m not sure yet. Some of the
big
things are still here. TV, computers. I haven’t had time to inventory yet. But they trashed the place.”

“Okay. We’ll send someone over to check it out.”

I sat in the living room waiting for either the phone or the doorbell to ring. I sat on the couch thinking, easing the clip from the Beretta and palming it back into the butt. A soothing rhythm while anger and fear roiled inside. Think.

When the cop came I’d be open and confused by the break-in. Surprised at what was taken and what wasn’t.
You’ve got me, officer . . .
Lead him along while I worked through what I was going to do.

When the doorbell finally rang
,
I slid the pistol under a couch cushion. I could see a blue-uniformed cop through the window. All told the response time was mighty quick. Too damned quick. I filed the thought away. He was in his late thirties, short, with close cropped hair and restless eyes. A three-striper.

“I’m Sergeant Christie,” he said as I invited him in. “You’re Greg McKenzie. I recognize you.” He did not offer his hand and neither did I.

“Like to see the mess?”

“Let’s get the particulars first.” As he looked around the large living room I got the feeling he was surprised at the affluence.

“Why don’t you take the chair over there.”

He continued to stand.

“When did you find someone had broken in?”

“When I got home. The door was unlocked–”

“You’re telling me a trained investigator leaves his door unlocked?”

“No. I’m telling you I found it unlocked.”

“Stuck the code somewhere in case you forgot it?”

“No.”

“How come you don’t have an alarm system? The place looks like it could afford one.”

“My choice. Any other questions?”

He wasn’t asking about Jill. I’d see he got his routine report and then get him the hell out of here.

“You don’t have to get scratchy, McKenzie.”

“Just do your job and leave. I’ve had enough of Metro and Tremaine and newspaper bullshit. What else do you need to know, or can you look around now?”

He shoved his pen in a pocket and flipped his notebook closed. “Crime Scene can take it from here. But don’t expect any arrests, McKenzie. You know how incompetent we are.”

At the door I snapped, “Don’t bother with the Crime Scene Unit. I need to clean this place up.”

I watched the cruiser pull away, then returned to the couch to think. I had cleared the deck, got the report in, now I was free to move. The Beretta was warm in my hands. I didn’t remember retrieving it from under the cushion. Now the wait.

Hold on, Jill, light of my life. Hold on.

I stared at the phone, waiting for it to ring, waiting for some Arab sonofabitch.

Chapter
8

The phone rang. I was ready, but it was Sam Gannon on the line. “Did Jill have car trouble?” he asked.

I frowned. “Not that I know of.”

“I just came through
Andrew Jackson Parkway
and saw her Camry sitting on the side of the street.”

I felt a knot tightening in my stomach. “You’re sure it was Jill’s car?”

“Positive. Had her Gethsemane UMW bumper sticker on it. Hasn’t she been in touch?”