On the Hook (17 page)

“As you probably know, I am Andrew Elliott. Call me Andy.”

“That’s what your daughter said to call her also.”

He smiled. “She always was my little tomboy. From as early as I can recall, she wanted to be a truck driver.”

“Could I get you ladies some coffee or tea?” The way Mrs. Elliott posed the question, it was almost an interruption. It gave Westen the idea that Andrea’s dad had wanted the truck driver more than either the mother or daughter.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Westen said. Smith did likewise, though it seemed to pain her. “We won’t keep you long.”

“It’s no bother,” Andy said. “Sit down, sit down.”

Andy Elliott, the father, was nothing like Westen had expected—someone who appeared infirmed and well, sad. This man had the skin tone and manner of a virile and active person.

As they settled on a rattan loveseat, he wheeled closer. “Now tell me what brings you to our home. I assume Andy sent you?”

“No sir.” As with Lyle Manager, Westen explained whom they worked for and what they were doing in Chicago. “I’m not sure how to say this. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea but well, when we heard about the takeover bid for Starfire Trucking, we couldn’t help…er, we had to ask…”

The chair shot so close to Westen’s knees, she leaped back to avoid a direct hit. She waited for the denial that his daughter could, or would, be involved in something as heinous as the theft of the Picasso.

But what he said was, “What takeover?”

Uh-oh. Clearly his daughter had filled them full of manure. Westen did her best to explain what they’d heard about Wayne Trucking’s desire for power.

He nodded several times slowly, lost in thought. “I’d heard they’d bought out Sunderson’s but figured Sunderson was going under and they’d worked out a deal. I had no idea—” Then he seemed to realize something. “Did Andy tell you all this? How she planned to get out of the mess?”

“No sir. We heard about the takeover from a third party. As far as her keeping the company…” Westen was at a crossroad here. She didn’t know whether it was better to divulge what Andrea had said about Dad bailing her out or let things hang. Smith solved the dilemma for her.

“She said you offered to help.”

“Help?”

“Financially.”

He whirled the chair back a yard or so. Westen took it as a signal their meeting was over. She also assumed he’d be on the phone to his daughter before the door hit them in the butt-sides.

Smith and Westen rose in unison. Mrs. Elliott, who’d remained surreptitiously in the doorway, came forward to escort them outdoors.

Ryan turned the SUV behind the limo, spun the tires and threw crushed oyster shells on it as they shot down the driveway.

“So,” Smith said, “if our Andy junior is a liar about Andy senior, might that also make her a thief?”

Chapter Nineteen

Thursday night, Westen stood in front of the Buffalo/Niagara terminal, wind whipping hair into her face. How they could call Chicago the Windy City, she couldn’t imagine. Buffalo was far worse than anything there.

She and Smith climbed into the rented SUV. Ryan raced around to slam their meager luggage—not weighed down by underwear—in the back. Less than twenty seconds later, he sped along the airport access way and up the ramp toward the highway.

Smith thought she spotted someone following so they’d taken a circuitous route. Inside, they’d split up and gone to three different check-ins, all the while watching for suspicious-looking people. Trouble was, in an airport, lots of people acted suspicious.

The thing worrying Westen was that, with Devon Blake in jail, who might be after them? Several names adorned her list from the owner and drivers at Starfire, to Charles Fenwick, the curator of the museum, but none—even Andrea—made viable suspects.

What about Ryan? KJ had hired him. Clearly, he was there to report back. When the chips were down though, he’d shown a protective side. And a loyal one when he avoided KJ as diligently as they did. There was the unlikely possibility Ryan was the thief, or in cahoots with the thief, and had managed to cajole KJ into hiring him so he could watch the investigation’s progress. Be easy to do. Ryan was good looking. KJ was the type who thrived on ego-stroking. Westen doubted it’d be hard to get close to her.

Ryan was privy to their every move. If they got near to finding the painting he could neutralize first one and then the other. Who’d know? Westen would bet, if she and Smith didn’t come back, Grady wouldn’t be able to remember KJ’s name to report to the police.

As she mulled this over, a third option popped up. What if Ryan, or KJ, had taken the painting and someone had somehow stolen it from them? That’d give them a serious reason to watch Smith and Westen. A reason to want them to find it. They’d report solely to KJ. When the painting was located KJ could take possession on the pretense of turning it over to authorities, and conveniently arrange to have the painting stolen once again. Or disappear with it. Westen shook her head. The ridiculous conjectures were really muddying up her brain.

Westen lurched out of her thoughts when she was thrown against the car door. Beside her, Smith groped for a handhold. All she came up with was Westen’s purse. She wrapped her fingers—still swollen and purple from pounding on the Blake kid—around the handle but as Ryan swung the vehicle up a right hand ramp to the highway, Smith toppled toward Westen.

“Ryan,” Westen called.

“If you’re going to tell me to slow down, forget it, I’m sick and tired of these guys trying to get the best of me.”

“You saw somebody?” Smith asked.

“No, but I’m not giving anybody a chance to get that close.”

Once on the highway, the twisting and turning stopped. Westen’s brain stopped jostling the sides of her skull. “I was going to ask if you knew for sure Devon Blake had gotten into our room last night. I mean, he could’ve put a bomb under Smith’s bed or something.”

“My bed?” Smith squeaked.

“Of course. Why would he do anything to me, you’re the one who beat him up.”

The SUV veered left then leveled out as it zoomed into the passing lane. “He didn’t,” Ryan said. “I let myself into your room after he ran away the first time. Made sure he hadn’t done anything. Honestly, I don’t think he got in. I’m ninety-nine percent sure I caught him at the door. Whether he planned to go in, I don’t know. I asked him at the cop station but he just grinned like an idiot. Hey, can one of you watch out the back? I have to keep an eye on this traffic.”

Westen undid the seatbelt and turned to kneel on the seat. “Should I ask how you
let yourself
into our room?”

“No. Hey, did either of you bring that hairdryer?”

“No, why?” Westen replied the same time Smith said, “It belonged to the hotel.”

“We’ll have to stop and buy one then.”

“What on earth for? I don’t use one.”

“Neither do I,” Westen said too.

“Well,” Ryan continued, “in case those guys catch up to us…it looked like a handy, multi-use weapon.”

Westen laughed. “I can see the headlines now. New Hampshire insurance investigator dries intruder to death.”

“Come on, you guys, it was the only thing handy,” Smith said.

“That’s what I said—a handy, multi-use weapon,” Ryan said. “As a matter of fact, I think we all should carry one. And maybe a lamp too. I wonder if I can get a shoulder holster for mine.”

“The lamp or hairdryer?” Westen asked.

Smith spent some time staring out the window. Westen couldn’t imagine their teasing had hit a sore spot—though a lot of things she’d assumed about the brusque woman were turning out false.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” Smith said after a while. “About that Blake kid. Well, not about him…about the car following us yesterday morning. We thought it was Blake. But we led him to the airport. He was supposed to think we’d left town.”

“He could’ve found out we didn’t.”

“How? We’re registered at the hotel under KJ’s name. The museum is way on the other side of town from his place. It’s not likely he spotted us on the street.”

“Which means there is someone else after us.” Westen was tempted to give up the vigil for the car behind them, and sit back in the seat. Her knees hurt, her back was stiff. There were at least fifty cars in the lanes behind them. Any one of them could be tailing them. Well, except for that van-load of kids singing. “How far is the hotel?”

“One exit,” Ryan said, but Smith interrupted with, “I got us a different one. Just in case KJ is somehow involved.”

Ryan took his eyes from the road long enough to shoot her a questioning glance. Smith shrugged. “We ran out of suspects.”

“I assume you have me on your list?” he asked.

“Yes,” Westen answered, unembarrassed, “but you keep moving down.”

“How far down?”

“Pretty low. You’ve saved our potatoes too many times to be a bad guy.”

“Well, thank goodness for that. So, where is this new hotel? And did you get me a room too?”

“It’s four blocks from the other.” Smith gave basic directions. “I paid for two rooms—one for us, one for you. They’re under my name.”

“Your name?” Westen asked. “Do you think that was wise?”

“No choice. They wanted a credit card for payment. I don’t think it’s a big deal. Smith’s a really common name. And I used my first initial.”

“I guess it’s okay. It has to be.”

As Ryan guided the SUV into the parking lot at the Courtyard Marriott, Westen spun around and sat down. Even though they were fairly sure nobody had followed, they hurried into the building.

****

In their room, Smith and Westen both flopped on the beds.

“I’m starving,” Westen said. “Want some room service?”

“Sure. A big, fat cheddar burger wrapped in bacon.”

Westen stifled a shiver and opened the menu on the coffee table. She didn’t bother asking if they should invite Ryan. She wanted nothing more than to wolf down something and dive under the comforter. A quick phone call assured them food would be on the way asap.

“I’m gonna live in a place like that someday,” Smith said.

Even though it’d been hours since they’d left the north shore community where Andy Elliott lived, Westen had no trouble understanding the comment. “So am I.
But
I will have somebody there to clean for me. I don’t want to try and keep up with something that size.”

“Good idea. I hate housework.”

Why wasn’t she surprised?

“I think we should have a cook too.”

We? “I like to cook but I agree. A man who can cook and clean. An Adonis with blond hair and blue eyes.”

“And a body like David Beckham.”

“No. Daniel Craig,” Westen said.

Smith laughed. “He’d be okay, too. But I’d write into his contract that he has to grow his hair out.”

“Did you know Beckham made #46 on Glamour mag’s top 100 Sexiest men?”

“Now that’s trivia you can sink your teeth in. Where’d Mr. Craig come in?”

“That’s what confuses me. Only 87.”

“Prob’ly cuz of his hair. See, I was right to want David.”

“Let’s make a deal to hire whichever one applies for the job.”

“Done deal.”

In the morning, Ryan picked them up at the entrance. He was now driving a white four-door sedan. Westen and Smith shared a knowing smile about the new vehicle—he really wasn’t taking any chances—and climbed in. It was already loaded with bucket-size to-go cups of coffee and bags of pastry. The coffee was fixed exactly right for each of them.

Smith gave him directions to the museum then read from the paperwork in KJ’s envelope. “We’re going to see a Doctor Russell Batchelder.” She was silent a minute reading. “Wow. This guy’s a modern-day Indiana Jones. Listen to this. He was born in Brighton England. Came to the US to attend the University of Wisconsin. Majored in archaeology, minored in geoarchaelogy—”

“Geo-what?” Westen asked.

“Geo-archaelogy. KJ obviously did some research. It says here: geoarchaelogy applies the techniques of geology, geomorphology, and Geographic Information Systems (GIS) to archaeological problems.”

“Riiight.”

Smith laughed. “I can barely pronounce the words, forget about knowing what they are.”

“Let’s just say this guy is smaaart.”

“He graduated with a PhD and almost immediately got a job at BU. He taught their Introduction to Archaeology, and Art and Architecture of Ancient America classes. He retired from there in ’01. He and his wife moved to Buffalo to head the museum.”

“So, he’s married.”

“More than fifty years. Got two sons and four grandsons. They all live in New England.”

“What’s Kendra Jean’s personal comment about him?”

Smith shuffled the pages and read from the bottom of one. “Dr. Batchelder is like my Grampa. He’s kind and sweet as a candy bar. He was as helpful as could be, and diligent. So diligent he stayed all night at the museum to make sure nothing happened to the painting.”

“What a guy,” Ryan cooed.

To Westen the good doctor’s dedication was suspect. She’d think more on it later. Right now, they were pulling up out front of the imposing white building.

****

Inside, Smith and Westen asked a guard if they could see Doctor Batchelder. As the woman left in search of him, Westen couldn’t help recalling the curator from yesterday. She ached all over from their confrontation. She wished she’d brought a hairdryer…

The guard returned and escorted them through branching hallways and unending corridors to the far back of the building. In a dark cavernous room that resembled a warehouse, the guard stopped forty feet from a large amount of activity. Two men in navy blue uniforms were watching a red fork truck zip up a pair of ramps. It disappeared into the bowels of the trailer. The rumbling sound of the lift truck intensified within the confines. The hum of the motor deepened and within seconds it reappeared, its pair of long forks wedged under a large wooden crate with the name ANDEAN MUSEUM stenciled on all sides.

A tall, well-muscled man with white hair stood to one side. His charcoal gray suit hung loose on him. He stroked a skinny white mustache as the fork truck roared down the ramps and across the shiny cement floor. The man gestured for Smith and Westen to follow.