The Scratch on the Ming Vase by Caroline Stellings Page A

in thirty-five minutes.
    â€œThanks,” said Nicki, rushing to pay him.
    â€œWould have done it in less than thirty if that moving van hadn’t slowed me down,” he replied, but Nicki was already in the front door of the building.
    The Police Headquarters was a large four-story concrete structure with a front window like a tollbooth.
    The receptionist put down her book.
    â€œYes?” she asked.
    â€œI need to speak with an officer,” said Nicki. “I’d like to talk to Lieutenant—”
    â€œWait here,” she said, pointing to an uncomfortable bench and handing Nicki a plastic badge.
    Five minutes passed before someone came. Nicki read his nametag anxiously, but it wasn’t the cop she wanted.
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Nicki. “I was hoping to speak with a friend of mine.”
    â€œA friend?”
    â€œNot a friend exactly, but we have a mutual acquaintance. Is Lieutenant Kimo…uh—”
    â€œYou mean Captain Kimo Moi.” The officer headed back into the hallway. “I’ll get him for you.”
    Thank goodness he’s here.
    While she waited, she pumped the receptionist for information. “So is it true that a replica of a Ming vase was stolen from the police museum down the hall?” she asked, hoping her suspicions were right.
    â€œYes,” replied the woman. “Happened a few weeks ago. We still don’t know who took it. Or why.” She put down her pen. “It’s not all that valuable.”
    â€œWhat’s not valuable?” The brusque voice behind Nicki belonged to Kimo Moi, a tall man with an agitated face and huge sweat rings under his arms.
    â€œThe Ming vase replica,” said Nicki.
    â€œWhat did you want to see me about?”
    â€œI need to talk to someone,” she replied. “About the theft of the real one.”
    â€œReal what?”
    â€œThe real Ming vase.”
    He did a double take and then pulled her aside.
    â€œCome in here,” he said. He closed the door of the interrogation room behind them. His eyes flashed. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œWell, you see, I’ve been visiting some friends in Canada, and—”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd I discovered the identity of the person who took both the replica from the museum and the real vase, too. It was transferred to Toronto, to be given back to its rightful owner, but—”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œI was going to report this to the Toronto police, but I figured there was little they could do, now that the man who did this is here in Honolulu.”
    Silence.
    Gotcha! thought Nicki. Then she continued.
    â€œI’m going to find Mr. Newman now—that’s his name, Mr. Trent Newman—but I didn’t think it would be wise to confront him alone.”
    â€œNo, it wouldn’t,” said Kimo Moi. “I’ll take you there myself.”
    I thought you might.
    â€œDo you know where he’s staying?”
    No, but you do , said Nicki to herself.
    â€œI figured you could put out an APB and find him fairly quickly. Of course, I could always go to the FBI. They’ll help—”
    â€œNo. I’ll check my files. Maybe this man is on record.”
    Moi went away for a minute, pretended to check his computer, then returned with an address.
    â€œHe’s likely in Manoa.”
    The captain told the receptionist to divert any calls to his assistant. Nicki followed him to the cruiser. His wheels screeched as he tore out of the lot.
    He drove at high speed through the streets of Honolulu, running every red light he met. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
    The temperature rose quickly as the sun moved higher into the sky. Nicki went to open the window, but it was locked.
    â€œHot in here,” she said.
    He offered no reply and, with one angry flick, clicked on the air conditioning.
    They sped past