On the Hook (15 page)

“Get. Up. Or I’ll hit you again. Smith, can you reach the light switch?”

“I’ll try.”

Not that they needed it. The man’s body held the door open, hallway light poured in. With the thick cap and heavy coat, the identity of the bump on the carpet remained a mystery.

The man moved, bracing his hands on the carpet and easing himself into a crouching position. Smith maintained pressure with her hairdryer. She braced the door with one foot as he got to his feet.

“Don’t move. Don’t even breathe,” Westen warned.

The light from behind cast his face in shadow. Even so, he looked familiar. Finally Smith reached the switch. The instantaneous burst of light made Westen blink. His face came into focus.

“Well, well, well, Devon Blake,” Westen said. “Welcome to our lovely abode. Could I offer you a cup of coffee? Or maybe a ride to prison?”

“You obnoxious b—”

Westen kicked him again.

“I said I’d take care of you,” he said with barely a flinch.

“I think you got your scenario a little backward, big boy,” Smith said.

As with his mother earlier that day, he made a growling sound in his throat. “You stupid cow. I’ll get you.”

“Promises promises.”

His left arm moved toward his pocket, as if going for a gun. Smith, though she stood behind him, didn’t miss the action. She poked the hairdryer-gun into his back.

“Go ahead, saggy drawers. I’d love to put one on you again. Love. It.”

His face was already more bruises than pink flesh. His left eye was nearly swollen shut.

Down the hall, the elevator pinged. Devon Blake took advantage of the distraction. He spun, elbowed Smith in the face and took off. Smith staggered against the frame of the bathroom door. Westen started after him but Smith shoved her aside. “That douche bag’s mine.”

She burst from the room. He’d run to the left. Though he’d gotten a good start, an enraged Phoebe Smith was like a rabid dog. She made up the distance and tackled him before he got to the stairway door. They went down with a thud, Smith pummeling the back of his head.

Westen winced. Seemed like striking a skull would hurt the puncher more than the punchee.

A hooded figure appeared from the stairwell. A hand took hold of Smith’s shirt and yanked. Clearly, he wanted her off the intruder, but his hand came away with only the shirt. Smith kept pounding her prey.

Westen gripped her lamp and took off. Nobody was beating on her partner. Westen had wailed on the intruder; she could wail it on the hooded guy if he wanted some, too. No problemo.

She raised the lamp, ready… Then the hooded man turned.

“Ryan.” Thank goodness. Seeing he had no weapon, she offered him the lamp. He grinned and shook his head then tried again to pull Smith off the bad guy. By now, a half-dozen gawkers stood around. Nobody helped. Typical.

Ryan grasped Smith’s left wrist and stopped the pummeling. Smith growled, then realized help had arrived—not that she needed any. She gave one final whack to the back of her victim’s head, stood and moved away. Fuming as she was, she hadn’t seemed to realize she was half-naked. Westen stepped in front of her, but got shoved aside.

Two men—one in a police uniform and one in a suit jacket with the Hilton emblem on the lapel—moved in. Between them, they got Devon Blake to his feet. The policeman clicked handcuffs on him, then asked Smith, “You know him?”

Westen answered for her. “We had a run-in with him earlier today. My friend interrupted him abusing his mother and he took offense.”

That was all the man needed to hear. He shoved Devon Blake around Westen. “You three come to headquarters in the morning and fill out a report.” It wasn’t a question. “Break it up, folks,” he told a hallway full of gawkers, “the show’s over.” But it wasn’t. There was still a half-naked woman in the hall.

Westen decided now was the time to do a little manhandling of her own. She took Smith by the arm and maneuvered her back to their room. As Westen shut the door, she realized Ryan had followed. She found Smith a robe then flopped on the bed.

The red LED clock numbers said 1:10 a.m. Where had the time gone?

Smith dropped into one of the two chairs near the table. Ryan took the other, pushing aside two empty dessert dishes and the full coffeepot. Wait, where had the dessert gone?

Didn’t matter right now. Westen zeroed in on the coffee. She poured a cup and heated it in the microwave, doused it with cream—no milk on the tray—and went to sit on Smith’s bed.

Westen’s cell phone rang. They all laughed at once. “How could KJ have heard about this already?”

Westen answered. Sure enough, it was KJ. She punched the intercom button. “What’re you doing up so late, KJ?”

“Trying to get through to you. Where the hell have you been?”

“Well, let’s see. Somebody tailed us in traffic. I almost fell off the roof of a trailer. We captured a wife-beating museum curator and a mad-dog burglar. We lost our shirts.”

That comment made both Ryan and Smith laugh.

“Have you been gambling? What were you doin—Did you lose my money? Who’s laughing? Why do I hear a man’s voice?”

“KJ, why do you keep calling? You’re driving us crazy.”

“Have you found my painting?”

Since when did it become her painting? “Why did you call? It’s late and I want to go to bed.” She really did. That hangover Smith predicted was taking hold.

“To give you your flight information for tomorrow.”

It
is
tomorrow. “I hope the flights don’t go out too early. I have to be at the police station first thing.”

“What did you do? Where’s Smith? Is she in jail?”

Somehow Westen managed not to laugh or explain. Smith and Ryan didn’t even try to hold in their amusement. She said, “Let me get a pencil,” the same time KJ said, “I
do
hear a man! I didn’t send you there to—”

“Kendra Jean!” When KJ was finally quiet, she said, “Give me the information.”

Ryan produced a pen. Westen recited what KJ told her and Ryan scribbled away. “US Air, 9:20 a.m.” She was kidding, right? No, KJ never joked. “Arrives Buffalo…” They were going to Buffalo? “…11:45.”

“Wait, KJ. This can’t work. We have some people to see tomorrow. Can you reschedule for some time in the evening?”

KJ sighed. “Can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

“Doing what?”

Smith grabbed the phone from Westen’s fingers and hit the intercom button.

KJ’s voice came through loud and clear. “Complicating things.”

“Okay, fine,” Smith snapped, “we’ll ignore the leads we got today and head for Buffalo on the schedule
you
set.”

“Never mind, I’ll reschedule—Wait! Leads? What leads?”

“We heard a rumor that another trucking company is trying to take over Starfire, which would give Andrea a motive to steal the painting,” Smith said.

“But how—”

“We aren’t worried about the how right now,” Westen said. “I think it’s more important to find out the who and the why, don’t you?”

“Who told you this?”

“One of the truckers, Knox Blake.”

“But he’s a suspect himself.”

“I know, KJ. But you don’t want us to ignore this, do you?”

There was some muttering on the other end of the line. Westen could only pick up a word here and there: low-down rat…didn’t tell me…when I couldn’t… Finally, she stopped. “Wait, you said leads. Plural?” Her tone suggested the two novices couldn’t have been
that
successful.

“After hearing the takeover rumor, we talked to Andrea. She mentioned that her father knew the situation and had offered to help out. We’re going to ask him if it’s true.”

“Good idea.”

“So, will you give us new flights or should we ignore the leads?” Smith asked.

“Yes,
Phoebe
. I will call back in a short time with information on flights for the three of you.”

“Ryan’s coming too?” Westen asked. He shrugged as if this was news to him.

“Yes. All three of you, though I’m beginning to think it was bad judgment to sign him on to protect you. It sounds like he’s shirking his responsibilities.”

“I assure you, Kendra Jean, Ryan Ames is definitely all you said he’d be. And more.”

Chapter Seventeen

Damn Smith. Damn Westen. And the same for Ryan. She’d hired him to keep an eye on the women and report what they were up to. What did he do but leave them free to cavort and carouse and gamble all her money away. She should’ve known better than to rely on anyone but herself. People just couldn’t be trusted.

KJ needed clothes. It was nearly two in the morning. Not much chance Brett would be watching her building at this hour; he had to work early in the morning. She donned one of her new hats and, making sure to change the way she walked—Brett always said she had a unique way of walking—sneaked in the side entrance of her apartment building. The super had repaired the door. The locksmith fixed the lock.

Everything in the apartment was upside down. Brett must’ve been on a rampage. In spite of her neatnik tendencies, KJ didn’t take time to straighten up. Nor did she turn on a light. Brett often called her strange that she rarely needed lights to get around at night. But tonight, with everything tossed about, she stumbled every few feet. Once, she caromed headfirst into the corner of the dresser, raising a bump the size of a marble on her temple. After that, she took a chance he wouldn’t be watching and opened the mini-blinds to let moonlight flood the room.

She packed enough clothes for three days. In less than fifteen minutes she was done. At the door, KJ whirled around and went back to grab her passport and a different hat and coat. Out on the sidewalk, she used the adopted walk cursing everyone in her life but at the same time thanking the fates that Brett hadn’t shown up. Three blocks from the building, KJ ducked into a phone booth and called a taxi. The dispatcher said it’d be twenty minutes so she shut the door and prepared to wait. Thank goodness it wasn’t too cold. Except for an orange cat prowling a nearby alley the streets were empty, which was good because the suitcase wouldn’t fit in the booth with her.

Four minutes later, a car screeched to a stop at the curb in front of the phone booth. KJ screamed in frustration. How had Brett found her? Did he have a pipeline into the taxi company? Maybe her clothes were bugged. The idea made sense since he worked for some high-tech computer place. Something she’d taken from the apartment. Damn. Why hadn’t she been more careful?

KJ couldn’t run; she was closed inside this booth. He came toward her slowly, feigning a calmness no way he could feel. Her heart was thumping so hard she feared it might burst between her ribs. Brett crooked a finger for her to come out of the booth. She shook her head and pointed for him to leave.

“Kendra Jean, I’m sorry for everything.” He leaned against the glass.

Didn’t he know that his refusal to call her by the name she’d asked—begged—him to use, would just piss her off? Did he really think that sad
oh please forgive me
tone and puppy dog eyes would work on her? Whether he knew or not didn’t matter; Brett would do what he wanted. And if she didn’t comply, he’d get angry. All she could hope was the cab would arrive and rescue her from this predicament. But it didn’t. The moments ticked by. She and Brett remained in a standoff—her turning her back to him every time he walked into her line of sight.

“KJ. What do I have to do to let you know I’m really sorry?”

She faced him, making sure to look and act calm so he wouldn’t claim she was being one of those over-emotional women he disliked so much.

Then again, who cared what he thought?

“I’m sorry too. Her words raised a hopeful look to his saggy-eyed expression. “Sorry the English language has been expelled from your brain. You must feel very lost in this place where…”

Now his expression grew confused.

“…because I know I was speaking English when I told you to get lost. To get out of my life. At least it sounded like English to me. Sounds like it even now as I repeat it.”

“KJ.”

She held up a hand. “Don’t. You blew everything between us when you said you didn’t trust me.”

“I never said that.”

“Don’t throw semantics at me—when you accused me of taking the painting, you said it all.”

“I guess I worded it wrong. I was being supportive by offering to help you get rid of it. Find a seller. Whatever. I wanted you to know I’m on your side.”

KJ almost laughed out loud. English sure had abandoned the poor man. She wanted to get out of here. Suddenly she was exhausted. The nearby church tower had just chimed three a.m. His eyes left her face and glanced at the suitcase not two feet from his right knee.

No doubt he was making plans. If she didn’t make up with him, he’d take the suitcase. He knew how she valued her wardrobe and would expect her to chase him to the ends of the earth. How to handle him?

Three choices: dial 911, go out there and pound him senseless or, let him think she was relenting, suffer through a make-up hug and then run for cover. It’d really befuddle him if she took off without the suitcase though the option that sounded best right now was to beat his face into the sidewalk. Thankfully, the arrival of the cab saved his good looks. KJ brazenly opened the door and snatched her case from the sidewalk. Brett grabbed her arm but she jerked it away and climbed into the cab.

She directed the cabbie to make a circuitous route to the hotel just in case Brett tried to follow. Though she spent the whole twenty-dollar journey on her knees peering through the back window, Brett didn’t appear.

At the hotel, KJ fell into bed without changing her clothes. The cell phone in her pocket woke her. The room was dark, giving the idea it was quite early but the table clock said it was after ten a.m. “’Lo,” she said without checking caller ID. An unfamiliar voice had her shooting into a sitting position, bedclothes clutched close.

“This is the only time you will be warned. Call off the investigators you sent to Chicago—or else.” The line went dead.

KJ flung the phone; she couldn’t help the fit of pique. When would this nightmare end? What did other people do when the world was squeezing the life out of them?