On the Hook (10 page)

“What’s he look like?”

“Dark, hair that needs a cut is about all I can tell for sure.”

Brett.

“He’s got one of your pillows between his legs.”

No doubt about it.

“Smells like booze here.”

Drunk.

“Should I call the cops?”

“Would you, please? I told Brett I had the locks changed. He must’ve gotten mad when he found out it was the truth.”

“All right, I’ll call as soon as I get off the line. Now tell me where you are.”

“I’ll tell you where I’ll be soon—at the impound lot. I want to take another look at the trailer.”

She gathered her purse and paperwork on the case and stepped into the corridor. The elevator was just arriving.

KJ jumped back into the room even though the one person she feared seeing was in a drunken stupor in her apartment. She peered out.

A tall man wearing thick glasses passed hauling a large, wheeled suitcase. He stopped at the door across the hall. Could he be with the police? Somebody keeping an eye on her? It would be something they’d do.

“I’ll meet you,” Sam said.

Cops would probably follow to arrest her. She heaved a sigh loud enough for him to hear and then said good-bye. The doorway across the hall clicked tightly shut. KJ shook her head at her silliness.

She pulled open the door, sprinted for the stairway, and was inside the door to the stairwell before her door was fully shut. KJ watched to see if her neighbor’s door opened or anyone showed interest. When nothing happened, she hustled down the stairs and left through the back door that came out in a filthy alleyway. Perfect. Just the place she usually avoided. The kind of place nobody would expect her to be.

A block from the hotel, KJ flagged a cab. The first stop was at a shop that sold hats. She bought several to cover her bright red hair—the first thing most people used to identify her. The blue fleece fedora matched the tailored jacket. As the taxi shot toward the address of the impound lot, she tucked her hair inside the soft fabric.

The guard asked for her ID. Upon seeing the photo, he laughed. “I didn’t recognize you.”

She wanted to jump for joy. Not that he’d be likely to know her; they’d only met once. Still, she felt good.

He pointed her toward the trailer, which had been moved since yesterday. She got the back open with difficulty and for some time she stared into the gaping tunnel. Not a single thing looked out of the ordinary.

KJ climbed inside and walked two slow circles around the big wooden crate, which had been returned to the trailer after the police finished their investigation at the museum. The trailer floor was spotless. The walls, though pockmarked from years of abuse by forklift trucks, were clean too.

KJ opened the lid of the crate hoping upon stupid useless hope that the painting would be inside. Of course, it wasn’t there. It wasn’t the thousand times she looked yesterday. Where did the damned thing go? How did it get out of here?

Chapter Twelve

Westen climbed out of the echoing trailer. As she waited for Smith to shut the doors, she spotted the foreman, hands on hips, watching a pair of trucks leaving the yard. She hurried to him. “I need to ask a question.”

He’d started to move away, but changed his mind and returned.

“Why didn’t you mention you were retiring?” Westen asked.

“Why should I—it’s none of your business.”

“It is if you needed money and—”

The man stepped close, his bulk leaning on her. Though her instinct was to back away, Westen held her ground.

“You insinuatin’ I had something to do with that paintin’ being stolen?”

“You have to admit, from my perspective, you look like a good suspect.” With that, Westen left.

She and Smith headed toward the truck where the man was still working on the roof. Westen threw a glance over her shoulder to see if Mr. Youngblood had followed, or was aiming a pistol at her backside. He was gone.

Smith banged on the metal side of the trailer. If anyone had been inside, the echo would’ve rendered him deaf.

A face peered down from the roof. “Howdy.”

“Howdy,” Smith said. “Can we talk to you a few minutes?”

“Who’s we?”

“Insurance investigators.”

His “Again?” didn’t sound angry. It was merely a comment one might make if he’d come upon three red lights in a row. He nodded. “Boss said we should cooperate but I have to keep working so you ladies need to come on up.”

“Did he say what I thought he said?” Smith asked. “He wants us up there?”

“That’s what he said.” Westen was certain Andy didn’t allow civilians on top of her trailers—their liability insurance couldn’t possibly cover such things—but if that’s what it took to find the Picasso, there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do. She waited a minute to see if Smith was going to volunteer. When she didn’t, Westen kicked off her shoes.

From almost thirteen feet in the air, Brad Kerrington gave a hearty laugh and gestured Westen around to where a ladder was affixed to the front of the trailer. Feeling quite ridiculous, she climbed, the hard, round rungs cutting into her insteps. Wind—they were in the Windy City, weren’t they—whipped her hair and buffeted her blouse. But she made it to the top. She remained a moment, head and chest above the edge. Kerrington had returned to work about halfway along the roof. His wide back was to her.

She guessed if she wanted to talk, she needed to get all the way up. Man, was Smith going to pay for this. “Good morning,” Westen said to his hiney as she picked the slacks from her butt crack—how did Smith go commando anyway?

He peered at her over his shoulder wearing a sly grin, and then rose to his feet, towering over Westen’s five feet six inches. She couldn’t tell much about his features since he wore a raggedy Cubs ball cap and dark sunglasses. His demeanor was calm, unhurried.

As if reading her mind, he snatched off the glasses and folded them inside the neck of his wrinkled blue uniform shirt. “You want to know about the trip to New Hampshire?”

“Please. If you can spare a few minutes.”

“Nothing much to say. We loaded the crate and drove to Buffalo where we unloaded it. In the morning, we put the thing back in the trailer and drove to New Hampshire where we unloaded it again. We didn’t stop—”

“Not even to go to the bathroom?”

“Nope.” If he was embarrassed by the question, it didn’t show. “What else d’you want to know?”

A gust of black, diesel-scented wind belted her in the side and almost heaved her off the trailer. Brad grasped hold of her arm and provided ballast until the gust stopped. “Thanks. Can you tell me why Ms. Valentine chose you two in particular?” Westen asked.

He set himself into an exaggerated pose and doffed his hat revealing hair cut so short his scalp showed through. He poked an index finger into one dark-skinned cheek and turned a Shirley Temple grin on her. “Personally, I think it must’ve been my adorable good looks.”

This was the man KJ hadn’t liked. Westen couldn’t see why. Sure, his clothes were wrinkled and decorated with axle grease, or some such, but he was affable and outgoing. He performed like a gentleman in keeping her from a tumble off the roof. He didn’t act like a man with anything to hide.

“Neither do psychopaths,” she heard Smith in her mind.

Westen tilted her head at him. “I would like to hear your opinion why you were chosen. Did Ms. Valentine mention your stint in prison?”

He didn’t appear surprised she knew such information. Nor did he seem uncomfortable. “Sure, we talked about it. I think I convinced her I’m rehabilitated.”

“Are you?”

His fun-loving manner dissolved. “Yes.”

“I believe you. How did you learn the painting was missing?”

“We unloaded the crate. We undid the straps from the dolly, wheeled the thing into the main warehouse, and then the curator said we could go. We got in the truck, headed to a hotel for showers and shuteye.”

Another gust of wind pushed at her. This time Westen braced her feet on the freezing trailer roof. Her toes were going numb. “You were heading back home in the morning?”

“Yeah.”

“Nonstop?”

“Probably. That’s why we drive in pairs, so we can take turns. It’s more economical to keep the truck rolling. Anyway, we got about a couple hundred yards or so from the building. One of the guards came over the radio and told us to go back. All hell had broken loose. We waited around till they checked the truck over, then we left again.”

“Bobtailing.”

If he was surprised she knew the word, he made no reaction.

“What do you think happened to the painting?”

Brad shrugged. “Damned if I know.”

“No theories?”

“Not a one.”

“One more question and I’ll get out of your way. Your foreman—Ed Youngblood—you heard he’s retiring?”

“Yeah. Thank goodness.”

“You don’t like him?”

Brad gave another shrug. “I suppose he’s okay if you don’t mind brown-nosers.”

“Brown-noser? Sorry, I’m not familiar with the term.” Westen thought of Smith, who’d be laughing right now because the queen of useless trivia didn’t know what a brown-noser was.

“A brown-noser is somebody who’s got his nose up the boss’s ass. Basically, a tattletale. Runs to management with rumors and every little thing everyone does wrong.”

“Your boss didn’t seem the type to listen to things like that.”

Another shrug. “I guess she does sometimes.”

“He ever get you in trouble?”

His, “Nah,” wasn’t too convincing.

Westen thanked him. He walked her to the edge and held her hand till her feet were stable on the rungs of the ladder.

From below, as she slipped into her shoes, she and Smith waved good-bye.

“Where to now?” she asked Smith and received a single word answer.

“Food.”

It sounded like a good idea. She was frozen to the bone after being in that wind. A hot cup of coffee and a bucket of fries would really hit the spot right now.

Ryan was waiting where they’d left him. Steam puffed from the tailpipe, which made Westen very happy. It meant the car was warm.

He leaped out, ran around and opened the back door. Westen jumped in. She shoved over to make room for Smith but she’d already taken the front seat.

“I like to ride shotgun,” she said.

Westen grinned. Smith knew she was annoyed at her refusal to go on the trailer roof and the close proximity of the backseat might’ve made an excuse necessary. Didn’t matter. A theory as to the demise of the Picasso spun like a tornado in her mind. A bit of alone-time might help it coagulate.

“Where to, ladies?” Ryan asked.

“Someplace where there’s hot food,” Westen replied.

Smith turned partway in the seat. “I think we should get something to go and head directly to Knox Blake’s house.”

“But I’m fr—”

“It’s for sure Brad got on the phone as soon as we left to warn his partner we were in town.”

“Sure. But what difference can that make?”

“If they’re guilty…”

“No way. How could they be? KJ was there the whole time. But even if they are, what’re they going to do? On the trip back from New Hampshire, they had plenty of time to get their so-called stories straight.”

Smith heaved a sigh and flung herself forward in the seat.

Westen relented. “Okay, to-go food it is.”

“I was thinking about Andy. Do you believe she never mixes business with pleasure?” Smith asked.

Funny topic, but if it put her in a calmer mood, that was fine. “I believed her, didn’t you?”

“In my experience, people who volunteer so much information generally are lying.”

No calmer mood; for some reason Smith was trying to pick an argument. How about this: “You volunteered about the tuba. Does that mean you really don’t play?” That ought to get her dander up.

Smith made a snorting sound in the back of her throat and jammed the seatbelt in place.

Ryan, sporting a lopsided smirk, pulled into the parking lot of a fast food restaurant. Westen was still mulling over the original question. Yes, she had believed Andy. Why would she lie? The topic had nothing to do with a stolen Picasso, did it? She leaned her head back and wrapped her arms around herself to keep some heat in. Well, not unless Andy had worked in conjunction with the driver—

No, if the drivers were involved, it would have to be both of them. No way one could steal the painting without the other knowing.

“Is everything all right?” Ryan called.

“Yes. Why?”

“You sounded like you were strangling,” Smith said over her shoulder.

“Just frustrated. Every time I think I’ve got a handle on this thing, something else pops into my head.”

“Want to run anything past me?” Ryan asked.

“No, thanks. Not yet.”

“Well, I’m here when you’re ready. What do you two want? I’ve gotta hit the head. I’ll pick up food on the way back.”

“Coffee and an industrial size french fry,” Westen said, the same time Smith said, “Burger with the works, fries and a strawberry shake.”

Smith frowned. “Why don’t you get a sandwich or a burger? You never know when we’ll have time to eat again.”

“I’m having exactly what I want, thank you very much.” Westen leaned against the cushion. Maybe she should have Ryan take her to the airport for a swift return flight to unpaid bills and employees with mysterious and sure-to-be-depressing questions. At least there the conflict came from legitimate sources. It was all up-front, in your face.

Smith got out of the car and climbed into the back passenger seat. Must be time for some up-close-and-personal conflict. It’d been a long, long time since Westen had been involved in fisticuffs. Maybe it would be wise to advise Smith that she didn’t go in for hair pulling or pinching. All-out punches—that was how to handle an opponent.

Smith gazed around the parking lot for a moment. Apparently she didn’t see anything suspicious because she busied herself biting her nails and spitting pieces on the floor. She finished the right thumbnail and finally made eye contact.

Westen took the offered opening. “Do you really think the thieves are still hanging around Chicago, or did you say that to make me angry?”

“Why would I want to—”