”
Max stumbles, trips over his feet. “Whoa!”
I fight the urge to laugh. “Just ignore him. He’s saying hi. It turns out Aunt Weeby’s cage cover really works. He’ll be quiet now after that first blast.”
“Lucky you!”
“I won’t dignify that comment with an answer. Why don’t you sit? Want some coffee? Or maybe iced tea? Water? Soda?”
“Tea sounds great—as long as it’s sweet.”
“Come on, Max. We’re in Kentucky. Tea only comes sweet here!”
He grins. “Then tea it is.”
My heartbeat speeds up, but I don’t know if it’s from his smile or from fear. And while I fill the glass with ice and tea, I ask myself how much I really fear Max.
Did he kill Mr. Pak? Would he hurt—kill—me?
What shocks me most is my lack of instant reaction. I glance over my shoulder and watch him study my lists. His expression is serious, intent. But at the same time, his posture is relaxed. He doesn’t exactly give off murderous vibes.
Besides, he’d have to be Oscar-worthy to pull off the gem-dunce act. To want those legendary rubies, you have to know your gems. And ignorance of gemological data doesn’t necessarily equal murderous tendencies.
I put his glass down on the counter, and to gain some time, I reach for a paper towel to wipe it off. Lord? What do I do? Can I trust him? Or did he kill Mr. Pak? Please guide me—I can’t see my way clear.
“Here you go.” I put the glass within easy reach. “I see you’ve been looking at my lists. What do you think?”
“You’re pretty thorough.”
“So you don’t think I missed anything.”
“Not that I can see. But there’s still nothing here to go on.”
“That’s the problem.” Okay, Lord. I’m going with my gut here. I’m gonna trust him, so keep your eye on me. Aunt Weeby needs me alive and kicking for a while longer. I wouldn’t mind hanging around some more, either. “I’ve been wanting to call Mrs. Pak, but I have no idea how to go about that. All I know is that they live in Bangkok. But millions of people live in Bangkok.”
“And there’s no way to know if Pak is the Thai equivalent of Jones or Brown.”
“Exactly. I’ve thought of calling the Thai embassy, but what do I say? ‘Hi. Your citizen was killed in our vault, and I want to talk to his wife about him.’ I can see them sending out the loony-tunes patrol for me.”
“You’re right. It won’t fly.” He picks up one of my lists, takes a sip of tea. “How about tracking down the bird?”
“I thought about that, Max. Mr. Pak couldn’t have brought the parrot from Thailand. There are strict export rules, and since that whole bird flu scare popped up, you can bet no Asian bird is getting in this country without every health expert checking it out. Besides, I don’t know if they have tropical parrots in Thailand.”
“That means he bought it here. Can you check bird . . . what? Farms? Hatcheries?”
I chuckle. “I think hatcheries are for fish, not necessarily eggs. And I tried to Google parrot breeders. Guess what? I got 35,200 sites! I don’t think either you or I will live long enough to check them all out.”
“True, but where did Mr. Pak go? I mean, how long had he been in the country? And what airport did he go through? Since he must have bought the bird here, I don’t think he would have traveled far from the airport where he arrived.” “Good point, but good luck trying to get any info on incoming passengers. There’s something called Homeland Security, remember?”
“There is that.” He takes another sip of tea, then returns to the lists. “How about your old boss? Wouldn’t he be a good one to talk to? You said he’s the one who introduced you to Mr. Pak. He must know something.”
“That’s where I went after we landed from Myanmar.”
Should I mention the woo-woo feeling I got while I waited for the cab? Nah. He already thinks I’m half-baked. Which I may very well be, after all I’ve done. And said. “Roger hadn’t even heard about the murder.”
“He hadn’t? That’s strange. You told Chief Clark about the connection between the two of them. I was there. Why wouldn’t the cops question him?”
“Hey, I asked the chief that very same thing. It did nothing for him. He said he had plenty to investigate here.”
“That’s crazy. And didn’t he mention the FBI?”
“No, I did. But he brought up Interpol. Where are all those guys?”
He shrugs. “Interagency jealousy?”
“Beats me.”
“Maybe they’ve been staking him out without anyone knowing.”
“Maybe, but that sounds a little too James Bondish to me. All I know is that there’s a dead man in the picture. That should trump all the other garbage.”
“I know the chief’s your father’s friend—”
“So he says, but I’ve never even heard of him.”
“Anyway, your aunt seems to like him, and she’s okay by me. I have to wonder if he’s really that much of a good ol’ boy cartoon character. What if he’s really doing his job, and lets everyone think he’s kind of slow?”
“I don’t think he’s slow, just nasty. He thinks I’m behind all this, and there’s no way! Besides, the FBI hasn’t even talked to me. Doesn’t that smell fishy to you?”
“Maybe they’re staking you out too. And maybe that’s the first thing we should look into. Has it been reported to the right authorities? And if not, then why not?”
We? Is there really going to be a we here? And why? “How do you think we should go about doing that?”
He wiggles two fingers in the air. “Let your fingers do the walking. Check the phone book. I’m sure there are government listings. We’ll start there.”
“No. Better yet. Let me call Roger. If no one’s talked to him yet, then we know something weird’s really going on.” I flip out my cell phone. “I’ll try his cell. He never goes anywhere without it.”
The phone rings a couple of times, three, then, “Hello?” Dulcet feminine tones do not equal Roger. “Tiffany? Where’s Roger? Or did I dial your number by mistake?”
“Andie?” She sounds as surprised as I am. “Ah . . . I wasn’t expecting the phone to ring. Neither was Rog. He’s, um . . . unavailable. You do realize it’s late, right?”
“It’s not that late. Could I please speak with him? I only have a question or two for him. I won’t keep him for long.” Tiffany sniffs. “I can tell you’ve never been a bride, Andrea. We need our privacy.”
Eeuw! TMI. “All right, all right. I’ll call him in the morning.” Then, to make my discomfort even greater, Max looks at me. “Well?”
I blush hotter than . . . well, than the fire of a Burmese ruby. “Trust me, Max. You don’t want to know. It has to do with the two of them and their privacy.”
To my mischievous delight, Max turns pigeon’s-blood red. “You’re right. I don’t want to know.”
Neither one of us speaks, and the grinding of our mental gears is almost deafening. Then something comes to me. “You know what else I want to know?”
He leans forward, empty glass in hand. “What’s that?”
“Who Chief Clark’s silent shadow is. Aren’t you curious?” Max leaves his glass on the table, sits back in his chair, tents his fingers. He doesn’t answer right away. When he finally speaks, he does so in a quiet and thoughtful voice.
“Maybe he’s one of the Feds on the case. They have to be involved. The chief even brought up Interpol, like you said. That guy with him looks like a Fed. He’s always worn a suit, white shirt, and navy tie. He’s almost a cliché.”
“Well, the chief wears his dress shirt and tie, but I think the missing suit jacket’s his style choice.” Or lack thereof. “But wouldn’t an FBI agent ask his own questions? Wouldn’t he introduce himself? How about homicide detective? Maybe that’s what he is, but in some junior, training job.”