On the Hook (13 page)

“Certainly. He’s right over here.” She gestured toward an extremely tall man wearing a severe black suit. The way he held himself, and sober expression on his face, said he took this job very seriously. “Who may I say is here?”

“We’re investigators for New Hampshire Property and Casualty.”

Westen didn’t know what she’d expected to come from this visit, but it certainly wasn’t for the tall man to elbow his way through the crowd and disappear out a back door.

Chapter Fifteen

Westen performed a more ladylike version of Fenwick’s departure while behind her, Smith shouted for the security team. Suddenly the place was full of uniformed men and women. Westen pointed toward the tall, double doors between which Fenwick had flown. Without hesitation, not even knowing who or what they were after, the guards zipped through the doors into a room full of Egyptian antiquities. The place looked like the inside of a pyramid, complete with sarcophagus on a raised, jeweled dais in the center.

What Westen didn’t see was the fleeing curator. Two museum-goers turned from their examination of a gold Siamese cat, eyes wide as the crowd of people burst into the room. And stopped in their tracks.

One of the guards faced Westen. “What are we looking for?”

“Your boss, Mr. Fenwick.”

His expression turned to one of disbelief.

“Stop doing a goldfish impression and get him,” Smith said. “We want to talk to him.”

“Why not just ask to see him? Why go through all th—”

“We did, and he ran away.”

“Who are you, anyway?” another guard inquired.

“We’re from the insurance company.”

“Why would he run from you?”

“Catch him and you can ask him yourself.”

“Maybe their coverage is being canceled since he let the Picasso be stolen,” Smith said.

“He didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“When he takes off this way, it makes him look like he did,” Westen said. “Now get him, please.”

Two of them moved off to search the room.

“There’s another exit.” A female guard headed in that direction, muttering, “I always thought there was something strange about him.”

Strange was a rather mild word considering what Westen knew.

A shout came from the corner where a pair of sarcophaguses leaned against the wall, a heaping pile of ancient household belongings between them. Two guards stood in front of the left-hand sarcophagus. The door was open and they were pulling Mr. Fenwick into the open. It didn’t seem to matter that he was their boss and hadn’t been charged with any wrongdoing, they were none too gentle with him.

Even so, he managed to squirm loose. He launched himself back into the Egyptian room, barreled into the two customers, knocking them aside like bowling pins, then shot into the hallway. Westen stood to the side so she wouldn’t get trampled by the gaggle of guards and other people intent on capturing their now-fugitive boss. As the group stormed through the building, Westen followed the sounds of shouted warnings and breaking glass, ready to pounce with questions once Fenwick was suitably subdued. The chase ended in an auditorium where seats surrounded a wide movie screen on which a body was being embalmed by a person wearing garb suitable to Cleopatra’s time period. About half of the fifty-odd chairs were occupied. Surprisingly, nobody seemed turned off by what was happening on-screen, yet several complained when Charles Fenwick’s scrawny silhouette superimposed itself over the embalmer.

Fenwick was cuffed and escorted back to the office behind the Egyptian room where he was none-too-gently encouraged into his desk chair. In front of the burgundy color drapes, the man’s pale skin looked ghostlike. The need-to-flee seemed to have fled.

Westen and Smith stood side-by-side staring at him. Westen, for one, was speechless. A trip she’d expected to be a ho-hum waste of time, produced heart-pounding excitement akin to the climax of a Frank Marshall movie—though she still had no idea why the curator had put them through all this.

“Mr. Fenwick. I am Westen Hughes, a freelance investigator for the insurance company who underwrote the policy on the Picasso. This is my partner, Phoebe Smith.” The words freelance investigator sounded good to her ears.

Charles Fenwick blinked watery blue eyes. They flicked back and forth from Westen to Smith. “You mean, you’re not from—”

They waited for him to finish. He didn’t.

“We’re not from what, Mr. Fenwick?” Smith asked.

He seemed to consider not replying. Then he changed his mind, sat up straight and smoothed some wrinkles from the front of his shirt with his cuffed hands. “I assumed you were from the police department.”

“Is that how you always act when police come asking for you?”

“I do if I’m expecting—”

“Don’t stop now, Mr. Fenwick.” Westen didn’t add: I’m really getting interested.

“If I’m expecting to be arrested.”

“Why would police arrest you?” Smith waited a moment. When no reply came, she added, “Does this have to do with what you did to your mother?”

The man lost whatever deportment he’d recovered. He dropped his head on the desk, his long fingers clenching clumps of dark hair near the nape of his neck. Westen couldn’t help picturing the same place on Smith’s head where her hair was missing. She looked at Smith who shrugged. They waited while the clock on the far wall ticked away. The relentless click click sounded ominous. Westen wondered how often three people had been in the same room with this much silence.

She spent time taking in the surroundings: a nice, plush office, with drapes that exactly matched the deep pile carpet. The uncluttered desk was burnished mahogany. On one corner sat a picture in a gold filigree frame. Westen stepped close and spun it around. The movement brought Charles Fenwick’s head upright. He looked surprised to see them still standing there.

The picture was of three people in front of a wide-trunked maple tree. One person was clearly him at about ten years of age. A boy, probably two or three years younger, knelt beside him; an older woman sat beside the boy. All three shared many of the same features: wide mouth, hair color and crinkles at the corners of the eyes.

Westen handed the picture to Smith, who asked, “Your mother and brother?”

He nodded.

Westen tried to imagine this man beating on his poor mother but couldn’t. The image didn’t come, but an idea did. “Mr. Fenwick, you didn’t hurt your mother, your brother did.”

Smith’s head spun toward her so quickly Westen couldn’t help thinking about the movie The Exorcist.

Charles Fenwick shook his head hard, but Westen held her ground. “Why are you protecting him?”

He gave another head shake, then a small nod that, if she hadn’t been watching, she would’ve missed.

“Why?” she asked.

“He’s—” He made a palms-up defeated gesture. “He’s always been in trouble. I just thought that if I helped out this one time, he’d realize—that maybe he’d get his act together.”

“You chanced ruining your whole life for him?” Smith set the picture on the desk, then gave it a deliberate turn so he had to look at it. When he didn’t respond, she added, “How’s that working out for you?”

“I managed to keep it quiet. Till you arrived.”

“We haven’t told anyone. But our boss knows. It’s in a report she gave us,” Westen said.

“You know it’s going to come out,” Smith said.

Another small nod.

Smith waved off the topic. “We’re here because of the Picasso that disappeared. It’s all we really care about.”

“Investigators were here yesterday. That’s why I thought you—”

“Did the transfer go as expected?” Westen asked. “Nothing unusual? No unexpected phone calls, no bats flying around the room?”

He gave the matter consideration then said no. “We followed normal protocol—it’s almost ritualistic in its performance.”

“I understand you recommended Starfire Trucking.”

“Certainly. They’ve transported many items for us. There’s never been a single problem.” After a small hesitation, he added, “You don’t think Andrea’s involved, do you?”

“You know her?” Smith asked.

“Sure. As I said, our two companies have had a number of dealings.”

“No ah…further relationship?” Westen asked.

A small smile appeared on the much-relieved face. “No. She’s got an inflexible rule not to date anyone with whom she does business.”

Which meant he’d tried. Westen couldn’t make the rejection and the theft connect in her mind so she looked to see if Smith had further questions.

“Did you interview the drivers?” Smith asked.

“No. They were the same two we’d used many times before. I didn’t see a need.”

“Thanks Mr. Fenwick. That’s all for now. If we think of anything else, may we call again?”

He shot her an embarrassed grin. “Definitely. And I promise—” he performed a Boy Scout cross over his heart—“not to try and escape again.”

“Wouldn’t do any good,” Smith muttered as they left the room.

Westen chuckled. She must be pretty pleased with herself after manhandling that teenaged boy.

****

Smith, Westen, and Ryan entered the T&J Bar at just after five thirty. The place was full but not so busy the bartender was rushing around, which hopefully meant they could have an in-depth conversation with her. They slid onto three stools at the horseshoe-shaped bar. The bartender was a youngish woman with blonde hair and green eyes—definitely a magnet for the place. She had an engaging smile and turned it on Ryan almost immediately. Westen felt a bit confused at the jealous twinge that pushed through her. They ordered drinks: two beers and a diet soda.

Smith leaned forward and spoke across Ryan, “Who’s gonna do the talking?”

“Wish we had a picture of Knox Blake,” Westen said.

“We do.” Ryan punched a few buttons on his phone and showed Westen the screen—a picture of Knox standing on the stoop of his apartment building. He had his son by the shirt collar as he dragged him up the steps after the altercation with Smith.

“You took this?” Westen asked.

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Didn’t know if you might need it in court.” He lowered his voice. “I have one of Andy and that foreman too if you need them. And one of Westen on the roof of the trailer.”

“Was she picking her wedgie?” Smith beckoned to the bartender and showed her the screen. “Do you know this guy?”

She glanced at the picture. It was clear she recognized him by the way her brows shot up—and then quickly down as she strove to protect her customer. “Nope. Don’t know him.”

“He’s not in trouble or anything,” Westen said. “Actually, you can help clear him of suspicion in the theft of a very valuable painting.”

The woman twisted a damp rag in her hands as she considered Westen’s comment for a moment. “Are you talking about that one stolen on its way to the museum someplace on the east coast?”

“Yes. A Picasso. Knox was driving the truck. And all we’re doing is eliminating people from the police’s suspect list.”

“You cops?” She regarded Smith in particular. “You don’t look like cops.”

“We’re insurance investigators.”

The bartender slapped the towel on the bar. “So, you’re saying, if I swear Knox was here, it’ll clear him of suspicion?”

“No, because then you’d be in jail for perjury. You see, we already know he drove the truck. He was there when the painting disappeared.”

“So, whaddya want from me?”

“All we need, pretty lady, is a character reference,” Ryan said in what sounded to Westen like a come-hither kind of voice. The bartender’s expression softened instantly.

Westen nearly grinned. This man really knew how to handle women.

“I don’t know him very well. He comes in now and then, shoots some pool with the regulars and then goes home.”

“Does he bet on the games?” Ryan asked.

“Sure, they all do.”

“Win or lose?”

“Both, I guess.” The bartender’s suspicion grew again. She pointed a brightly painted pink finger at him. “You’re trying to drag me into telling something about money. Like whether he lost enough to need that kinda dough.”

“Did he?”

She gave a snide laugh. “None of these guys are in that category.”

“He married?” Smith asked.

The woman tilted her head and snapped. “You are investigators, I’m sure you already know he’s married with two nearly-grown sons and a kid on the way.”

Westen did her own placating. “It’s that kind of information that corroborates things we’ve been told.”

“What kind of person is he?” Ryan asked.

“Quiet, for the most part.”

“Unless he drinks too much?”

The bartender smiled. “Right.” She slapped the rag against her palm. “It’s that younger son who can really rile him. If I could have a nickel for every time the kid’s hit on me. Or every time I’ve had him thrown out of here. He’s nothing but trouble. We had to ban him from coming in again. Tore the place up a couple of times. Wouldn’t pay for the damage.”

“His dad wasn’t angry you threw him out?”

“Hell no, he was glad. The kid’s a major embarrassment.”

“Do you know the other son?” Westen asked.

“Harry? Sure. Nice guy. Never know he and Devon were brothers. You know he’s at Yale, right? Another thing different from brother Devon, who just dropped out of high school.”

“How long’s Harry been gone?”

“He’s a freshman.” She held up a finger for them to wait a minute, bent and came up with a cell phone. “He sent us this.” Ginger punched a couple of buttons and the image of a handsome teen wearing a blue suit coat and tie popped on the screen.

Smith whistled. Ginger smiled.

“Has Knox been in lately?” Westen sneaked a glance over her shoulder and barely heard the bartender say, “Not for a couple of nights,” because she’d spotted a familiar face.

Andrea Elliott, the owner of Starfire Trucking was seated in a corner booth. A half-full glass of something amber colored sat on a coaster in front of her. Nothing unusual in that; she’d admitted to being here on occasion. The eye-opening thing was the identity of the man practically sitting in her lap.

As Westen gawked, the couple rose from the table and moved to the dance floor where a country ballad oozed from a speaker near the ceiling. Ed Youngblood gathered Andrea in his arms and they moved gracefully around the open space.