On the Hook (11 page)

The arrival of Ryan with their food cut off Smith’s response. He knelt on the front seat doling the appropriate cups and bags over the seat. Westen could tell from his expression he was still amused at the interaction between them.

If Smith wasn’t trying to make her mad, then what was the animosity about? She thought back over their day. So far,
she’d
climbed on a truck,
she’d
inspected and measured the truck, and
she’d
done mostly all the questioning.

Westen inhaled to the count of ten. Start over. Clean slate. She drew the container of fries from the bag, punched the bag flat—putting a bit of emphasis on the punching to make a point with her partner—then set the fries on the squashed bag. She dropped the coffee into the cup holder.

“From the comment you made about the drivers, I assume you have a theory about the theft.”

“Why would you—”

Westen held up a hand. “Just stop. Talk to me. Tell me why you’re on the defensive like this.”

Smith swallowed the bite of hamburger and swallowed on a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

For what?

“I—”

I what?

“I can’t—”

Oh gosh, another person who adds one word at a time. This time, Westen wasn’t helping out. She concentrated on doctoring her coffee with tiny containers of creamer. She dug through the conglomeration of sugar packets Ryan had brought and found a brown one containing raw sugar.

“I can’t go—”

Westen made eye contact. Smith had removed the glasses, a rarity. She had nice eyes, very dark brown, almost black. She had thick lashes and wore no makeup.

“All right. I’m scared of heights. Are you happy now?”

Westen ignored the bark of laughter from the front seat and set her cup in the holder. “Why couldn’t you just say that? What’s the big deal?”

She ate three fries while waiting for Smith to spit out the answer to the question.

It finally came. “It’s a weakness.”

Now Westen saw the big picture. Acrophobia. A simple fear of heights had spurred this level of emotion in a woman who’d so far seemed to have a will of steel. Cool.

Chapter Thirteen

Ryan stopped the car in front of a duplex on the outskirts of Chicago. It had been recently painted but sported an old front door and antique storm windows—the kind that swung out and propped open with a long metal rod. Westen pulled the door handle. “You coming in?” Westen asked Ryan as she opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk.

“I think he’d better stay here and make sure nobody followed us.” Smith got out too.

“You watch too much TV,” Westen said.

“Somebody has to be careful.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Surely you don’t think the thieves are waiting around for somebody to try and pin this on them? That painting is hundreds—maybe thousands—of miles away by now.”

Smith’s, “I think you’re wrong,” was practically hidden by the sound of Ryan’s laughter. She slammed the car door then quickly realized it was the wrong thing to do. They wanted their arrival to be a surprise.

Smith and Westen started up the walk side-by-side. Westen twisted the antique glass doorknob and they went in, footsteps thudding on the bare hardwood floor, stained by at least fifty years of shoes and boots. The place smelled like a combination of pine cleaner—which obviously hadn’t been used in the hallway—and vanilla scented candle. They climbed the steep stairs. Westen tried not to touch the railing. She hadn’t brought any hand sanitizer.

At the top, she prepared to knock, but the door was ajar. Westen glanced at Smith and read bad omens in her eyes. Was everything she’d been predicting about to come true? Was some dire fate waiting in that apartment? Westen swiped sweat from her palms onto the thighs of her slacks and nudged the door open with a knuckle. It was pretty dark inside. The only light seemed to come from a window near the street-side of the apartment.

“Mr. Blake?” Smith took charge. She called again a bit louder. A rustle, like that of newspaper, came from inside. Smith had braced a hand on the doorframe. Her knuckles whitened. She peered over her shoulder at Westen, probably wishing she had her hairdryer. The glasses were in place again so Westen couldn’t tell if she was frightened too. Whether she was or not, Smith took the initiative and said Blake’s name again, and then stepped into the apartment. No gunshot sounded. No screams, either from the inhabitants or from Phoebe Smith, so Westen followed.

In the shadows of the living room, a heavily pregnant woman stood up from an overstuffed chair.

“Sorry to intrude,” Smith said in a soft voice. “We called out and when you didn’t answer, got worried something was wrong.”

“I guess I fell asleep.” The woman bent and flicked on a pole lamp next to the chair. She straightened, laying one hand across her distended stomach. The light from a small watt bulb illuminated the room. Though shabby, it was clean. It was also the source of the food-based aromas in the hallway.

Smith introduced them. The woman smiled. “Smith and Westen? Like the gun maker? You’re joking, right?”

Westen couldn’t help being amused too. She was the first to mention the unique combination of their names. “You should make sure your apartment door is closed.”

“We’re looking for your husband,” Smith said. “His boss Andy sent us.”

Man, the lies were somersaulting out of Smith’s mouth. Perhaps Westen shouldn’t have wanted her to take charge after all.

“Knox’s er, not home. He went er…bowling.”

“Andy said he took you to the doctor.”

“He did, this morning. Then he went bowling.”

“She said he was a big football fan. She didn’t mention bowling.”

“Er, yes. At the bowling alley, there’s a game on the widescreen.”

“I love football,” Smith said. “What game is on this time of day?”

“I don’t know. A rerun I suppose.” She tilted her head, her blue eyes taking in first Smith then Westen. “Are you here about that trip Knox made to New Hampshire?”

“Yes,” Westen said.

“Awful thing that happened. Now you all won’t leave him alone about it. The police have been here. And some insurance guys. A man came from the museum, and now you.”

“What did they say to Knox?”

The woman’s eyes widened. She pushed long silky-looking hair behind her left shoulder. “The police were nice. I could tell they were just following up on things. The insurance guys weren’t nice at all. Can you imagine, one of them had the nerve to accuse Knox of stealing the painting? What on earth would he want with something like that? Look at this place? Where would he put it that it wouldn’t stick out like a hammer-hit thumb?”

Westen didn’t bother mentioning the painting’s value.

Downstairs, the front door slammed. Heavy footsteps, on a mission, climbed. The doorknob turned; they all focused on the person revealed in the doorway. He was big, though the demeanor of a teenager hung about him. He stiffened seeing the strangers. Westen was immediately overcome with a negativity that made her want to get the heck out of here. But she held her ground.

The woman, whose name they hadn’t yet learned, smiled. “This is my son Devon.”

He didn’t greet, or otherwise acknowledge, them. He stepped between Westen and Smith, his arms jostling them enough that Westen staggered to catch her balance.

“I need some money,” he told his mother.

“I don’t have any. Your father’s got it. What do you need money for? I gave you some this morning.”

“None of your business.”

He moved away and Westen hoped the mean-spirited teen was leaving. But he groped around the left side of the sofa and retrieved a black vinyl purse. He undid the clasp and began rooting inside. The woman stepped toward him, her arm stretched for the handbag. He came up with a wallet. In the same motion he heaved the purse on the couch and shoved his mother backward. “Get away from me, you stupid cow.”

Smith caught her before she tipped over, and set her on her feet. While Westen seethed with inaction, Smith moved toward the teen. Before he could react, she popped him in the nose. “Put that wallet down and get the hell out of here.”

His hands went to his face. The wallet thumped to the floor. He whimpered and then raced for the door. Typical bully.

But he wasn’t through. “I’ll get you for this, you ugly toad.”

“One on one, me and you buddy. Downstairs, ten minutes!” Smith shouted.

What did she have, a death wish? That kid was twice her size. The only reason she’d won this battle was because of the element of surprise.

An eerie silence followed the boy’s clomping footsteps down the stairs and out of the building. Westen listened, prayed, for the sound of an engine starting, but was disappointed.

“I’m sorry about my son. He’s rather high-spirited.”

An understatement if there ever was one.

A rustling sound, the same as the one they’d heard from the hallway earlier, came from the back of the apartment. The woman acted as though she didn’t hear it. Westen assumed it was a pet, maybe a cat.

“May I use your bathroom?” Smith asked.

“Er, I suppose so.”

Westen stifled a grin. The confrontation with the teen had seemed out of character for Smith. Maybe it’d—as the adage went—scared the pee out of her.

Westen tried to make conversation in the awkward silence. “I understand you have another son also.”

The woman’s face brightened. “Yes. He’s attending Yale. He wants to be a—”

Her sentence was cut off by a loud thump and a yelp, which was followed by the sound of a scuffle. The woman wrestled herself from the chair and waddled down the hallway. She stopped halfway when a dark-haired man pushed into sight. Behind him stood Smith, about a foot shorter, holding the collar of his shirt and shoving him into the living room. “Look what I found.” The man had pale brown eyes and a wide-set nose. His expression was one of chagrin.

“Knox Blake, I presume,” Westen said.

Smith gave him a final shove. He toppled forward, caught himself and went to stand beside his wife.

“What’s the meaning of your behavior?” Smith asked.

He assumed a contrite expression and gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I had nothing to do with the painting being stolen. I’m sick and tired of answering questions.”

“So, you left it to your poor, pregnant wife to deal with us
and
your very rude son.”

The woman shot him a smirk, then excused herself from the room. He swiped a palm up the front of his face and back over his curly hair. He shook his head. “I figured you’d go to the bowling alley looking for me.”

Smith grinned. “Might’ve.”

“I didn’t take that painting.”

“You realize by hiding you look guilty,” Westen said the same time as Smith said, “So, what happened to it?”

Knox Blake dropped backward into the chair his wife had been sitting in. “That’s the thing. I’ve searched my brain but I haven’t got a clue. There’s no way that painting could’ve gotten out of that trailer.”

The wind seemed to go out of everyone in the room at the same time.

“Hey,” Smith said, “about your foreman…”

“Ed? What about him?” Knox’s eyes widened. “He’s not part of it, is he?”

“Would you be surprised to hear if he was?” Westen asked.

“Yeah. He’s a goodie-goodie. You probably heard the stories going around about him. He’s a no-good friend, but if I was a boss, I’d want somebody like him keeping an eye, and an ear, on things, you know what I mean?”

“What sort of boss is Andy?”

“One word: tough. She’s a strong lady who’s been through shit and back. First, her dad was paralyzed in an accident and she’s forced into taking over the business. Doing pretty good at it till lately.”

“What happened?” Smith asked.

“She didn’t tell you?” His face sobered. “Maybe I shouldn’t say anything.”

“Tell us what?”

They waited while he wrestled with his conscience. Finally he said, “Someone’s trying to take over Starfire Trucking. Andy’s been working all her friends and family, trying to get money to keep the guy from buying the place out.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t think I should say.”

“It’s Wayne Trucking, isn’t it?”

He gave a nod that said he was glad Westen guessed so he didn’t have to tell.

“Who told you about this takeover?” Westen asked.

“I don’t think I should say,” he repeated.

“Was it Andy?”

“Hell no.” Then he looked a bit crestfallen.

“You seem sorry you mentioned it.”

“Yeah. I guess I am. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

“You sure that’s the only reason?” Smith asked.

Westen nearly grinned seeing his surprised expression. Somehow Smith had hit a home run. But what could his other reason be? It wasn’t long before she found out.

“Look.” His coffee-colored eyes flicked back and forth between them. “I promise that just because I used to work for them…it doesn’t mean shi—Sorry. Wayne’s been buying out a lot of other companies.”

“How many is a lot?” Westen asked.

“Well, two. But still…”

But still, was right. The fact remained the same: Wayne Trucking had made it so Andy needed money. A lot of money—fast.

“How much money is involved here?” Westen asked, feeling like they might’ve found themselves a jackpot in this man.

“Not sure. I heard two million mentioned.”

Lacking any more questions, Smith and Westen made their good-byes.

“Do you believe him?” Westen whispered as they thumped down the stairs.

Smith threw one word over her shoulder, “Yeah.” She opened the outer door and stepped onto the stoop. And came face to face with Devon Blake, fists raised and ready.

In the past few minutes, Westen had forgotten about the disgruntled teenager. Unfortunately, he hadn’t forgotten about Smith.

They had one ace-in-the-hole though—that of their driver.

Except for one thing: Ryan and the Ford Fusion had disappeared.

Chapter Fourteen

Westen stood on the sidewalk, one eye strobing frantically down the street for Ryan Ames, the other praying young Devon would see the error of his bad-mannered ways, particularly in relation to one Phoebe Smith because, though Westen feared for both their lives, Smith was ready.