On the Hook (14 page)

What did they see in each other? Andrea was beautiful, feminine and young, probably in her early thirties. Youngblood had to be over sixty, with a paunch and receding gray hair—a seriously unlikely match. Unless they were some sort of business partners. But that would preclude the way they were dancing, right?

“I assume you know who they are?” asked the bartender.

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “They come here a lot?”

“Two or three nights a week.”

“They an item?” Smith asked.

“I think so. I have the idea at least one of them is married. They never come in together but they often leave at the same time.”

“Let’s get a table,” Westen suggested.

They ordered a fresh round of drinks and found a table in a dark corner to see if anything unfolded between Andrea and Ed, or if Knox showed up. Ryan tried to strike up a chitchat session, but outside of naming a few favorite bands: Demon Hunter and In Mourning—and movies: 21 Jump Street and Resident Evil (Westen made a note to never go to a concert or theater with her)—Smith remained a clam about her past.

After two dances quite up-close in nature, Andrea and Ed Youngblood returned to their corner where they engaged in serious-looking conversation. They paid little attention to anyone else in the room, even when, about an hour later, Knox Blake arrived alone. Not that Westen expected him to bring along his pregnant wife.

It was almost eleven o’clock. Westen’s eyes were burning. She was about to suggest she return to the hotel while Ryan and Smith, who seemed bright-eyed and alert, remained to keep vigilance when the trucking company owner and the foreman stood up. He tossed some money on the table. As they passed toward the door, they waved goodbye to the bartender.

Westen, Smith and Ryan did likewise, sneaking almost on tiptoe outside behind the oddly matched couple. Westen had just cleared the left-hand door when her left arm was grasped and she was wrenched sideways. Instinct had her groping for a handhold to keep from tumbling to the sidewalk but nothing was there and she landed hard on the pavement. When her vision cleared, Andrea Elliott stood glaring down at her.

She reached to help Westen to her feet. “Why on earth did you do that?” Westen asked.

Andrea used her body to nudge Westen to the side of the double doors where Ryan had already been corralled by Ed Youngblood. Smith stood nearby, fists clenched, but so far keeping under control. And probably wishing she’d brought the hairdryer.

“What’s the big idea following us?” Youngblood asked.

“Following you? We were there first.”

Ryan shook loose of Youngblood’s grasp. “The ladies have been hired to find that painting. When suspects lie and act in a suspicious manner, it makes them curious and the result is sometimes surveillance.”

“Suspects!” Youngblood seemed incredulous. “Us? Why?”

“Because you’re retiring to a place and opening a business that requires lots and lots of money.”

“And nowhere in your feeble, tiny brains did you figure that somebody could’ve been saving for this their entire life?”

“Yup,” Smith said. “Till just about the time you’re seen climbing inside the clothes of a woman who owns a business that’s about to be taken over by a rival trucking company. And who, somehow, forgot to mention it to investigators. And…who swears up and down she doesn’t mix business with pleasure.”

Two faces turned on them: Andrea, aghast; Youngblood, surprised. About what? That there was something his lover had neglected to mention?

“There will be no takeover!” Andrea shouted, then checked to see if anyone had overheard. “It will not happen. Besides, it’s none of your business. It has nothing to do with the theft of the painting.”

“You see,” Smith said softly, “that’s what makes us suspicious. If it’s nothing…if it’s not gonna happen, why didn’t you see fit to mention it?”

“I didn’t mention I’m a borderline diabetic or that my father’s in a wheelchair either but that doesn’t make either thing related to the theft.”

“You’re nitpicking,” Smith said, not so soft-voiced now.

“As far as I’m concerned, so are you. There will be no takeover. My father can, and has offered, to bail me out, but I’m doing what I can on my own.”

“Like stealing mega-expensive paintings?”

Chapter Sixteen

Most of the ride back to the hotel was spent laughing. And ignoring KJ’s calls alternating back and forth from Smith to Westen’s phones. After the sixth snubbed call, Ryan’s phone rang. He laughed and let it go to voicemail, which he played for them once it finished recording. It was short and not very sweet. “Where the hell are those two women? What’s going on? Ryan! Somebody call me or I’m phoning the police.” Before the message clicked off, she added, “You’d better not be hurt.”

“Aw shucks,” Smith said, “I didn’t know she cared.”

“I get the idea Kendra Jean doesn’t care for anyone but herself,” Ryan said. “Which one of you is calling her back?”

“Smith. It’s her turn.”

“Why my turn?”

“I called last time. Best if one of us doesn’t have to take all her baloney.” To Ryan, Westen added, “We’ll check in later, after we’ve had a nice meal—”

“And a biiiig drink,” Smith chimed in.

For the first time since the night of Ben’s death, Westen wanted a drink. She didn’t like to recall the night after Ben’s death when she’d found a bottle of his whiskey—and finished it. It was the one time she’d let go. And she didn’t like the feeling. Tonight though, with friends about, she might splurge. Maybe it was time to let her hair down a bit.

“So,” Smith said as they climbed from the car, “are you coming in?”

Ryan shook his head. “I think I’ll keep an eye out for a while—in case Mr. Youngblood or Ms. Elliott get it into their heads to follow us. Thanks though.”

Smith and Westen made tracks to the steakhouse on the ground floor of the hotel. Each ordered the biggest steak—well done for Westen and rare for Smith. Each ordered a drink: beer for Smith, a mojito for Westen.

“Do you think Andrea or Mr. Youngblood have anything to do with the painting being stolen?” Smith asked.

“My opinion is no. I think she’s a proud woman who’ll—”

“Do anything to save her business,” Smith finished.

Westen laughed, feeling a bit woozy from the mojito. “No, I think she’s legit. The fact that she doesn’t want to ask her father for the money says a lot about her as a person.”

“Maybe you’re right. We are looking into it further, aren’t we?”

“Yeah. I want—I want to see the owner of Wayne Trucking, the one who’s trying to take over Starfire. Be good to get the owner’s pers-perspective.”

Neither of them spoke again till they were halfway through their meal. “Tell me your thoughts about Mr. Fenwick,” Smith said.

Westen popped a piece of meat in her mouth. “This steak isn’t half bad.”

“You should eat meat more often.”

Westen shrugged. “Bad for you,” she said around a mouthful. “Okay, you go first.”

“Where were we?”

“You were g-going to talk about Mr. Fenwick.”

Smith started to speak, probably to disagree, but changed her mind and said, “I am amazed at your ability to read people. I had only one thought—that he’d bullied his mother. Couldn’t see beyond that.” She used the small knife to cut the end off a fresh loaf of bread and spread butter on it. “I had to stop myself from leaping across his desk and popping him one.”

Westen swallowed the steak and chased it with a long swallow of the rum drink. She tilted her head and watched Smith take a bite from the bread. “Thanks for the compliment.”

“You make it sound like I never give one.”

“If you do, I’ve yet t-to be a recipient. You argue with everything I suggest. You never agree with any…thing.”

“Do too.”

“Since we left New Hampshire, the only thing you agreed with was my idea t-to eat here before going upstairs.”

“No offense, but if there’s an offer of food, I’ll probably agree to most anything.” Smith pointed her fork at Westen’s plate. “Unless you keep ordering healthy crap.”

“I ordered steak. Th-that’s not healthy.” Westen was stuffed but was determined not to leave a morsel on the plate. The squash was cooked and seasoned perfectly. The salad dressing homemade. The bread fresh from the oven. “And I got this marvelous mojito.” To prove she didn’t only eat healthy things, she took a large sip from the glass.

Smith broke into a fit of laughter. “You’ve only had one drink and you’re sloshed.”

“Am not.” Westen took a smaller sip. “I might like to get used to it though. This is very good.”

“When you’re sober and the hangover is gone, I’ll remind you.”

“I won’t get hungover-er.”

On the edge of the table, Smith’s phone vibrated so hard it nearly knocked itself over the edge. Westen giggled. “You can tell from the way it’s shaking that it’s got to be KJ.”

Smith checked the ID. “It’s Ryan.”

“Hey, Ryan, change your mind about c—”

Her mirth evaporated. “Okay. Right away.” She dropped the phone in her pocket as she jumped up from the table.

A waiter raced over. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s great. But we have to go. Would you send two slices of blueberry cheesecake and another of each of these drinks to our room?”

“Certainly ma’am.”

Smith’s “Don’t call me ma’am,” was said so sharply he leaped back. She left him a large tip—with KJ’s cash. Before he hurried off to get the dessert, she stopped him. “And if anyone comes asking, you haven’t seen us.”

“Of course.”

“As a matter of fact, you don’t know us.”

“Or,” Westen chimed in, “you c-could admit to knowing us and tell who…whoever that we mentioned staying at another hotel and just came here for the fantastic mojitos.”

The waiter brightened. “Good idea. If anyone asks, I’ll have a good story ready. I’ll let the rest of the staff know.”

“Instead of drinks, you’d better make that a pot of coffee.” Smith added another twenty to his palm then grasped the front of Westen’s blouse and pulled. “C’mon. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“What?” Westen laughed. “Is KJ comin’ to get her mojito back?”

Smith pulled harder on Westen’s blouse. Before it came off in her hand, Westen hurried behind her. “Tell me whaz going on.”

“Trouble. Big trouble.”

They took the stairs because, at the moment they passed the stairway door, not a soul was in sight. Nobody to spy on them.

Westen mostly stumbled up the cement steps, but she managed, all the while swearing never to touch any more alcohol. Then again…she hadn’t had this much fun in a long time. When was the last time she sneaked into a hotel room? Only once, in a dream. Granted, in the dream she was plastered all over Ben Affleck, but still...

Smith opened the door and peeked into the fourth floor hallway.

“Anybody out—” Westen called.

Smith’s head popped back. Her hissed “Shut up!” sounded as loud as a scream in the stairwell.

“Why? I don’t—”

Apparently the coast was clear because Smith still had hold of her arm. Now she was being hauled toward the room.

“Wait while I—”

“Shh!” Smith gave her a jerk.

“Why do I—”

Smith yanked her into the room. Westen staggered forward. Thankfully the bed broke her fall.

Westen woke to the room shaking. It shook hard. And didn’t stop. She should warn Smith. “Earthquake. Smith, we gotta—”

“Shh!”

“Why do you keep saying that? Why is it so dark? Is the electricity out?”

“Get a grip on yourself! Be QUIET.”

The world jolted again. This time Westen realized it was Smith jerking back and forth on her arm. “Will you pul-lease stop that!”

“I will if you be quiet.”

“Bu—”

She laid a hand against Westen’s lips. “Quiet. We’ve got trouble.”

The T word brought Westen instantly sober. She shook off a dose of the woozies and whispered, “What’s up?”

“That phone call while we were in the restaurant was Ryan,” Smith said softly. “He was at the end of this hallway, keeping an eye on our room, and he saw a guy at our door.”

“What was he doing?”

“Trying to get in.”

“What did he look like?”

“Built like a linebacker. Heavy coat and thick cap so Ryan couldn’t get better details. Anyway, Ryan stepped into sight and the person ran away.”

“When was this?”

“About two hours ago, while we were eating.”

Something about the timing didn’t sound right. She could’ve sworn… Unfortunately, the only question that worked its way into Westen’s head was, “Why are we whispering?”

“Ryan called back. The guy is here again.”

Westen sat up straighter, eyes riveted on the yellow stripe of light under the door. A pair of shadows—feet probably—broke the continuity about midway. “Maybe we should confront whoever it is.”

“No.”

“Why not? Ryan’s out there, right?”

“Well…”

Westen stood, balanced herself on the carpet and tottered to the door. Then she turned and went to the lamp at her side of the bed, ripped the plug from the wall and hefted the heavy thing in one hand. Would she really hit the guy? What had her life situation come to when she’d had this same thought twice in less than twenty-four hours? She walked to the door—the feet-shadows were still there—and yanked the door open.

With a deep-throated grunt, a dark lump tumbled onto the floor in their small foyer.

Smith leaped into the room gripping her weapon of choice—the hairdryer. She bent over and stabbed a corner of the front rim into his back. “Get up.” No reaction. She jabbed harder. “Get up or I’ll shoot.”

The still-inebriated part of Westen nearly erupted in laughter. The sober part waved the lamp, even though the victim was facedown. “She said to get up.”

“Go call the cops,” Smith said when the guy still didn’t move.

Westen didn’t want to leave her alone. “Ryan probably did already.”

“Oh yeah. Forgot.”

Where was he anyway? Probably keeping a low profile.

Or running for the hills.

Not if he was the bad guy.

The victim’s arm shot out and got hold of Westen’s leg. She clobbered him on the spine with the lamp. He kept hold of her leg so she hit him again, this time on the shoulder. A groan of pain made her flinch, but she held her ground and he held her leg. She put her weight on that leg, pulled back the free leg and kicked him in the face. This time he let go. She stepped back out of reach.