On the Hook (12 page)

Fists clenched in much the same way as the man-child, she stepped toward him, jaw tight with determination. Westen removed one eye from the too-empty street and used it to search for a weapon. Anything she that’d help if—when—Smith’s battle got out of hand. How could it not, especially when four teens about Devon’s age, were approaching from down the block.

“Smith…” Westen warned.

Smith didn’t react, but Devon peered over his shoulder. That flicker of inattention was all Smith needed. She leaped, fists pummeling the teen, who squealed and threw up his arms to ward her off. But it was too late, Smith wasted not a second doling out her punishment. As Devon’s legs collapsed under the Smith-onslaught, the group down the block broke into a sprint.

Westen located a piece of pipe—probably a murder weapon in a previous life—and hefted it over her head. She prayed that if the occasion struck, she’d be able to use it. The approaching teens were less than fifty feet away and closing fast.

Thirty feet.

Twenty.

Ten.

One foot.

The boys jumped on Smith.

A white flash and a squeal of tires said the Ford had returned. The right wheel bounced up onto the sidewalk. Ryan erupted from the car. A gunshot rang out. The boys burst from the pileup on Smith.

Another gunshot. The newcomers scattered.

Smith untangled herself from Devon’s flailing appendages. Ryan helped her up.

Standing on the stoop, pistol in his right hand, was Knox Blake. “Get out of here before the cops show up.”

Ryan opened the rear door of the car. Smith, in an
I’m okay, too bad you’re not
move, straightened her clothes, ran a casual hand over her hair, and climbed in. Westen dropped the pipe with a thud, stepped over the sobbing and bleeding Devon, and followed Smith into the car.

By the time she had the seatbelt buckled, the Ford was barreling down the street. She would’ve sworn Ryan took the right-hand turn on two wheels. Once the car straightened out, Westen was able to assess Smith’s physical condition. There was very little of her that wasn’t coated in blood. At first glance, Westen couldn’t see any specific wounds though it looked like a clump of her hair had been torn out. Her blouse was tattered. The buttons were missing.

“How much of that is yours?” Westen pointed at the red splotches.

Smith did a general evaluation, pulling the halves of her shirt apart and checking her naked breasts. She stretched her arms and shook them. “Everything seems to be in working order.”

The car rounded a corner then came to a sharp stop. Ryan leaped out and hurried around to help them from the vehicle. Smith stood beside her on the sidewalk in front of a hospital. “What the hell did you stop here for?”

Ryan gestured at the bloody mess. “You need to be looked at.”

“Like hell I do.” She climbed back in the car.

Westen shrugged at Ryan. “If she doesn’t want to go, you’re not getting her in there short of picking her up and carrying her.”

“Women!” he muttered and waited till Westen had gotten back in, then shut the door. Once he was settled in the front seat, he asked, “Where
are
we going then?”

“The hotel,” Westen said.

Smith opened her mouth to protest but Westen took hold of the shirtfront and bared Smith’s breasts. Smith had the grace to look sheepish. Then an idea hit her. “Hey, big man, where the hell were you when we needed you?”

Ryan spoke over his shoulder. “I had to take a dump. Couldn’t wait another second.”

“I bet KJ will be happy to hear I was almost mauled because you had to go to the bathroom,” Smith said.

As each moment passed, Westen was learning more about the prevaricating talent of the woman who was her partner. “We aren’t going to tell her.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Smith hissed. “If he thinks we’re holding something over him, it’ll keep him in line.”

Westen slapped a palm to her forehead and wished this day would hurry and get done with.

****

In their room, Smith beelined for the shower. Westen flopped on the bed, the cell phone—the one given to her by KJ—open. She dialed Grady, asked how things were going and was assured they were as right as rain.

She shut the phone and rolled on her left side, prepared for a nice catnap. The phone rang. She groaned, knowing the only person who would be calling was KJ. Westen managed to answer by the fifth ring.

“Where are you?” KJ’s accusing words flew through the phone.

“At the hotel.”

“What’re you doing there? You’re supposed to be out finding my painting.”

As calmly as possible, Westen drew in a breath. On the exhale she outlined their day.

The bathroom door opened. Smith, wrapped in a fluffy white towel, stepped into the room.

“Well,” Westen continued, “Smith spilled something on her shirt. We had to come back here so she could change.”

Smith grinned and mouthed, “KJ?”

Westen nodded.

“What were you doing on top of that trailer?”

For a moment, Westen wondered if a camera had been placed in her belongings, then realized KJ must’ve spoken to Ryan.

“Guess you should’ve been here if you had such a need to know.” The last of the sentence was said to a dead phone because KJ had hung up. Westen stowed the phone in the depths of her handbag before it could ring again. Why wasn’t KJ here anyway? The woman was fanatical to know every bit of news. Seemed like she be here to see, hear, and do firsthand.

“Are you okay for real?” Westen asked Smith.

“Yeah. Except for this.” Smith parted her hair where, as Westen had already noted, a good-sized section of hair was missing.

“Good thing it’s underneath.” She sat back on the bed and tried not to watch as Smith tossed off the towel, yanked things from the drawer and bent, back to Westen, and slipped into black slacks. “Where to after this?”

Smith turned, buttoning her blouse—electric blue and white stripes. “I think we should go see that curator.”

“I was thinking we ought to visit that other trucking company—the one Brad mentioned. What was the name of it again?”

“I don’t know. You were the one on top of that trailer.”

“Well, I tried to fill you in on what he said but every time I opened my mouth you bit my tongue off.”

The ludicrous image struck them both at once and they exploded in laughter.

“You know what I mean.” Westen spent a few minutes detailing her experiences with the best breezes the windy city had to offer.

“He kept you from falling off?”

“Yeah. Which says a lot about him as a person.”

“It sure does. You might’ve landed on me. I could’ve got all broken.” She took hold of Westen’s arm and propelled her toward the hall.

Westen snatched her handbag from the bed. It rang again. “I don’t hear anything, do you?”

“Nope.” They moved into the elevator. “I don’t think we need to bother with that trucking company,” Smith said.

“Because?”

“Those drivers aren’t guilty of anything more than overloaded bladders. We can’t learn anything there that’ll make any difference.”

“Maybe you’re right. I do want to talk to Andy again.”

“Yeah. The broad held out on us.”

****

As Ryan spun the car into traffic and headed for the Art Institute, Smith dug KJ’s notes from the envelope. “The curator is named Charles Fenwick. It says here that he originally wanted to be an archaeologist but—get this—he’s allergic to dirt and had to leave the program while doing fieldwork in Greece.”

“Bummer. That can screw up a career,” Westen said.

“It can but he didn’t let it. He went on to get a degree in anthropology from Dickinson in Pennsylvania. Apparently, he’s done a lot for this museum. He’s brought in millions in endowments.”

“Anything about relationships with the trucking company, either of the drivers, or the insurance companies?”

“Not really. The company that insures his museum has nothing to do with any of the others.”

“No mention of the takeover?” Westen asked.

“Nothing.”

“What were KJ’s comments about that guy Fenwick?”

Smith was quiet several minutes while she read. Westen watched the city fly past the window, hoping Grady had told the truth—that things were well back at the shop. “How far is this place?” she asked Ryan.

He didn’t answer. He seemed to be dividing his attention between the traffic and something in the rearview mirror.

When Westen asked, “What’s wrong?” Smith looked up. “Somebody following us?”

“I’m not a hundred percent sure.”

“But you think so…”

“Yeah. A light blue pickup. I have a plan. It’ll be a detour of about an hour but it’ll let us know for sure.”

“Remember, KJ said his attitude changed when she refused to go out with him.” Smith gave a hearty chuckle. “I think a lot of these observations are products of her overly fertile imagination.”

Westen was inclined to agree. KJ was a very opinionated person and the opinions, it was turning out, seemed to reflect her history with a person rather than a broad picture of them as a whole. “What else did she say?”

“He helped above and beyond what I expected to make this showing work out,” she read. “He was in personal touch with both other curators, Henderson McGee and Russell Batchelder to facilitate the movement of the Picasso.”

“He would be helpful, wouldn’t he, since it’s ultimately his head on the chopping block if something happens.”

“You’d think KJ would’ve realized that. It says here, he recommended Starfire Trucking.”

“Is that right?” Westen sat forward, stretching the nylon of the seatbelt.

“He said they’d used the company numerous times, though admittedly not with so valuable an item.”

“Is there a criminal report on him in there?”

“Can’t be. They wouldn’t let him work at the museum, would they?” This came from Ryan in the front seat.

“Could be,” Westen said, “if the crime happened when he was a kid, or after he’d been hired and he somehow managed to keep it quiet.”

“Could happen, I s’pose.” Smith performed a fruitless search for the report then she slid the information back in the large brown envelope.

“I’d like to go in there with some ammunition. Something to compel him to talk.”

Smith produced a cell phone and tapped a number with a blunt fingernail. Westen could hear the phone on the other end ringing. “KJ,” Smith said. “Did you do a criminal record search on Charles Fenwick?”

Westen couldn’t understand KJ’s response, but from the tone it was clear she hadn’t thought such work was needed.

“I need one, asap.” Smith hung up. She stowed the phone in her shirt pocket and brushed her hands together in a job-well-done gesture. “That’s how you handle Kendra Jean Valentine.”

Ten minutes later, Westen’s phone vibrated with an incoming text message.
Charles Fenwick does indeed have a criminal record
. She laughed to see KJ had sent it to her rather than Smith. For the first time, Westen found something to like about Kendra Jean—an aversion to being ordered about.

“Mr. Fenwick was arrested on July 22
nd
of this year for assaulting his mother. Beat her so badly she ended up in the hospital. KJ’s going to forward the police report if she can get one.”

The announcement caused Ryan to flash a look over his shoulder. “Sleaze-bucket.”

“It’s definitely sleazy,” Smith said, “but domestic abuse isn’t anything related to the museum. Nothing to do with stolen Picassos, trucking companies, or anything like that. And it’s not like he’s gonna beat up a mummy.”

“Very funny,” Westen said.

“I wonder how he kept the news of his arrest from his boss.”

Westen checked KJ’s message again. “I suspect it’s because it happened at the mom’s home in Michigan. I wonder if there’s something in the record that we can turn in our favor.”

“I see what you mean. Something that’ll encourage him to talk besides a shiv in his gut.”

“Right.”

“Perhaps the threat of his boss finding out will be enough.” Ryan flipped on the right turn signal and directed the car into the airport.

“Is our tail still back there?”

“I don’t see it. I think when they realized we were headed this way, they turned off.”

“Hopefully they’re satisfied we’re leaving their fair city.”

Ryan maneuvered through the vehicles dropping off and picking up travelers and made his way back out onto the highway. “It’s only about fifteen minutes to the museum from here.”

Sure enough, in seventeen minutes he stopped in front of the building, an imposing structure perfectly suited to being the intended forever-home of The Old Guitarist. As they were about to climb out, Westen’s phone vibrated with another message from KJ. She read from the small screen. “I scanned the report so I could get this to you fast. Might be more than I’m seeing right off. Looks like he beat her with his fists. Broke a cheekbone and they had to do surgery on her left ear. Mom moved away. Her address is undisclosed.”

Westen typed back the word THANKS and followed Smith onto the sidewalk.

“Wow!” Smith spun around, taking in the scenery.

“Did you know this is the second largest museum in the country?” Westen said, demonstrating more of her usually useless font of information. “It’s second only to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.”

Smith gave her the now-familiar eye-roll and a “that right?”

“Smashing kitties. Just smashing,” Smith said, regarding the enormous bronze lions standing guard at the cement stairs leading to the building.

“They’d be nice additions to your menagerie. Don’t eat much or make noise. And they don’t poop on the floor or escape to the neighbors.”

With that last line, Westen realized she’d gone too far. Smith turned and suddenly found something extremely interesting out the window. Westen wanted to apologize, but something about Smith’s demeanor said the time wasn’t right.

“Come on, let’s go in.”

Westen felt tiny inside the gargantuan foyer. “Wow,” she mimicked Smith’s earlier admiration of the lions. She stepped up to a woman wearing a tag on her lapel. “May we see Mr. Fenwick, please?” Her voice echoed even though at least thirty people milled about the area.