On the Hook (24 page)

The door was no sooner shut when Smith leaped in the air and kicked up her heels. Two passing officers laughed and stopped to watch. “I can’t believe our good luck.” At the sound of the words echoing down the hallway, Smith waited till they were outdoors to finish the thought. “How easy was that? I can’t believe we’ve got that ally I was talking about yesterday.” She got into the passenger side of Westen’s car. “It’s almost like being in heaven—that she hates KJ too.”

“Come on. KJ’s not a bad person if you can get past her self-absorption.”

Smith screwed her face into a deliberate smirk. “This coming from you? Have you forgotten what she did to you back in high school?”

“Same thing—self-absorption.”

Smith waved off discussion of KJ. “You realize that we have this thing almost figured out. Hey, can I drive?”

Westen wanted to ask if she had a license but it probably wasn’t the wisest idea to show distrust of her new partner so soon. She passed the keys into Smith’s hand as they changed places. Westen liked the sound of the word partner. She had serious doubts a relationship between them could be a permanent success; there were no two different people on this earth. But for a moment, Westen let herself revel in the dream that they managed to find the Picasso and she retired happily in the Bahamas. With an optimistic heart Westen was going to jump in and find out if opposites really did attract.

“You realize that even if the scenario plays out, we’re no closer to knowing where the painting is, right?”

“Killjoy.”

“Okay, so I guess that means we’re on the road again.”

On a sigh, Smith said, “Should we leave now—this afternoon?”

“I guess we could, there’s still a lot of daylight. Any idea where we can find that map the sergeant mentioned?”

“I bet it’s something truckers would have. Seems like they’d need to know about overpasses because of the vehicle’s height.”

“So?”

“Jeez, do I have to do everything?”

“That’s a good question coming from a person who made me climb on top of a trailer and race around questioning every suspect in Chicago.” Westen spun away.

“Wait!”

Westen stepped off the sidewalk and into the path of an oncoming tractor-trailer motoring through the heavy afternoon traffic.

“Westen!”

She stood in front of the truck. When it came to a full stop and the driver was shooting her the bird out the open window, she went around to the door and called up to him, “Where can I get a map?”

“Map?”

“Yes, the detailed kind that shows overpasses and stuff like that on it.”

He shook off the confusion. “Try the truck stop on 3A in Bow. Ask for a road atlas. Cost you about forty bucks.”

She bestowed him with one of her most winning smiles. “Th—”

Smith shot up beside her, caught hold of her sleeve, and jerked her back to the sidewalk. “Are you freaking insane?”

“I, uh…”

“Look, I didn’t mean anything by what I said. You didn’t have to go all radical on me.”

Westen nearly burst into laughter but Smith was so obviously apologetic that she held it in. She waved to the helpful trucker as he roared away, then headed for her car. Since Smith still had the keys, she stood by the passenger door waiting to be let inside.

Once buckled in place, Smith apologized again. Then said, “Look, sometimes my mouth gets the better of me. I don’t mean most of the stuff I say.” Westen met her serious gaze. Before she could reply, Smith added, “Don’t do anything stupid like that again. Okay?”

“Okay. Where to now—the impound lot?”

“Seems like a good idea. Except if police forensics couldn’t find anything...”

“If we’re going to be in this business, we can’t take everyone else’s investigating for granted. On television, how often do the detectives find things the big guys missed?”

“You know that’s on television, right? The world of ultimate fantasy and lies?”

“Just get in the car.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Smith and Westen were admitted to the impound lot by a bulky officer with a five o’clock shadow who examined their identifications with the precision of a tool and die maker. He spent a considerable amount of time staring from their faces to the images on the IDs. Even though Westen’s license photo looked as though she was performing calisthenics with her face, it still resembled her.

At long last, he nodded and called someone to escort them to the trailer. Naturally, it was in the far corner of the very windy, frigid lot. Westen was shivering with her whole body by the time they arrived. She craned her neck to look up, remembering how just a couple of days ago she’d been standing on the roof of a trailer just like this. She wondered if she should get on the roof of this one, then decided it would be more prudent to check the roof from inside. Outside, it looked exactly like all the other twenty-foot trailers in Starfire’s Chicago yard: same corrugated metal, same flashy logo. Westen made a circuitous route around the whole thing, running a hand along the lowest edge.

“What are you doing?” Smith asked as Westen began a second lap.

“Looking for hidden doors, imperfections—any way someone could’ve gotten that painting in or out.”

“I thought we established it was done through that panel in front.”

Westen stopped and faced Smith. The man who’d escorted them stood at the back of the trailer watching their exchange though Westen doubted he could hear what they were saying. “Just because we thought it was the most logical way, doesn’t mean that’s the way the thief did it. We have to weigh every possibility.”

“Okay. You’re right.” With that, Smith crouched and began a careful examination of the underside. Westen refrained from reminding her they could do that from inside also.

They’d stopped to buy a tape measure—a good quality one because Smith claimed, 1-they’d be needing it in their new career, and 2-they had quite a lot of KJ’s money left. Smith held one end and Westen walked to the other to ensure this was a twenty-foot trailer.

At the front, Westen checked the hatch door. It was well over six feet above her head. No way to get in. She searched and found a wooden box that she dropped on the cement beneath the door. Then she climbed up and undid a catch on the panel. At five six, she was just tall enough to peer inside. If she put a foot on the narrow metal frame, she might be able to climb in. And that was a big
might
. It would be impossible if the trailer had been moving. Which meant the thief, if he got in this way, was taller than five foot six.

“Hey, climb up here, would you?” she said to Smith. “You’re taller than me. See if it’s possible to get inside. Also, make a note to buy a camera.” And a heavier coat. And maybe a fur hat.

“Good idea.” Smith grunted as she pulled herself up, got a foothold and wiggled into the trailer. Apparently she landed hard because a loud echo, another grunt and a curse came soon after her feet disappeared through the opening.

“You okay?” Westen called.

She said, “Yeah,” though the word sounded forced. “Ask him to open this thing, it’s dark in here.”

“Make another note—to buy a flashlight.”

“Shut up and get the door open.”

The escort must’ve heard because he unlocked the trailer and stood back so Westen could climb inside. Smith was rubbing her left shin as she turned in a circle peering at the ceiling. “I don’t see any other openings.”

“I don’t either.”

She’d finally come face to face with the legendary wooden crate. It appeared to be hastily thrown together. A real come-down for such a valuable painting. It was made from rough-hewn slats of pine wood. The nails were embedded deep in the wood. Westen had seen this before, when something had been constructed using a nail gun instead of a hammer. The top opened on a trio of silver plated hinges.

Westen swung the cover all the way open until it rested against the back wall of the crate. Inside, midway along opposite walls, were two eyebolts. Attached to them with metal hooks was a wood compartment a bit over four and a half inches wide—just enough to fit the painting.

Smith stood beside her. Together they peered into the box.

“Dark in there.”

“Like I said, make a note to buy—”

Smith jostled her arm. “Come on. Help me turn this thing upside down.”

Together they wrestled the crate over, then tipped it so anything inside could drop out. Not that Westen expected anything, but lacking good light, it was the only option. Once the crate was on its top, they shook it back and forth, then righted it again. The only thing on the floor were some wood shavings clearly there from when it was built. So, they’d experienced another wild goose chase. Westen finished the inspection of the trailer while a dejected Smith stared into space.

This trailer had the same wood slatted floor—no possible places for a hatchway, not even directly under the crate—as the trailer they’d seen in Chicago. It had the same wood lining the walls to a height of about four feet.

“Here, hold the tape measure.” Westen handed the tab end to Smith and walked to the front. “Nineteen feet five inches.” They switched to measure the width. “Seven feet eight inches.”

Westen wrote the measurements in the notebook. Next she examined the floor, this time searching for fragments of picture frame, scraps of cloth, lint, aglets, buttons—any of the things detectives stumbled over on TV. Westen found nothing. It was as if the trailer had been detailed by a professional crew.

What a wasted effort. She’d frozen her ass off to learn things she’d already seen back in blustery Chicago. Westen accepted the policeman’s hand to get out of the trailer.

Smith raced around snapping pictures with the cell phone. Then she jumped down on her own. They thanked the officer and left the yard, then spent time waiting for the car to heat up, Westen rubbing her hands in front of the air vent. It was blowing cold air so she turned on the seat heater and stuffed her hands under her thighs. “What’s with this weather? It’s supposed to be May. So, what’s next on the agenda?”

“I guess we should go pack some clothes.”

“I guess so. Why don’t we drive to your house? From there, I’ll pack some stuff and get you in an hour or so,” Westen suggested.

“Better yet, why don’t I drop you off and come back to get you later?”

Again Westen expressed unspoken trust in Phoebe Smith by agreeing. Was there a reason she didn’t want Westen at her house? Maybe she’d gotten attached to the little hybrid. If so, it was a contradiction of the impression Westen had formed of her.

“What are you laughing at?” Smith said.

“Nothing.”

Soon, she stood at her mailbox waving good-bye to her new hybrid, hopefully not for the last time. Part of her felt bad not trusting Smith. Just because her new partner was outspoken and a little crude didn’t mean she was dishonest. Did it?

Westen was ready in far less than an hour. She’d called the newspaper and post office and had the services put a hold until further notice, something she hadn’t been able to do when KJ hijacked her. Ben’s black wheeled-suitcase sat near the door alongside a small cooler of drinks and snacks. She had no idea when they’d be back.

An hour passed.

And then another.

It dawned on her that Smith carried most of the ten thousand given to them by KJ. If she didn’t come back, KJ would probably expect Westen to return it. Though she felt more sick than hungry, she made a peanut butter sandwich and stood in the living room window eating it. The peanut butter made her thirsty so she went to the kitchen for a drink. That’s when somebody knocked on the back door.

Smith stood there grinning from one ear to the other. “I’m back. Sorry I’m late. I stopped to get some groceries. I figured it would be cheaper than eating on the road. As it is, we’ll probably have to stay in a motel at least one night. Westen finished her water and put the glass in the dishwasher. “Let’s get going.”

Smith picked up the bags by the door. Westen locked the door and followed her out of the breezeway to the hatchback where they stowed the luggage. She took the cooler up front.

“Where to first?” Smith handed her the keys.

“Route 3A. There’s a truck stop where we can get the map.”

****

The truck stop teemed with trucks of all sizes and colors. She slowed in the main parking lot.

“I’m not complaining but couldn’t you have gotten a little closer to the building?”

Westen laughed. “Could have but I want to find a truck similar to the one KJ’s guys used. I have an idea.” She cruised around the lot, back and forth in the rows of trucks parked or fueling up. After a minute, she stopped beside a tractor with something that looked like a camper attached. Behind the rig was a trailer—it was long, probably fifty feet or so, but that didn’t matter.

She and Smith got out. The driver didn’t seem to be around. The sleeper part extended about ten or twelve feet behind the truck. Behind that was the hitch. Westen put her foot up, grasped the ladder and hauled herself onto the hitch. From here she could easily open the trailer’s hatch door. Down on the ground, Smith cleared her throat.

“I know how you feel,” Westen said, “the exhaust is getting to me too.”

Smith made a louder sound. And then another. Westen gripped the ladder with one hand and peered over her shoulder.

An enormous bearded man had a rifle jammed in Smith’s ribs.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

KJ moped all the way back to her cell. Who else to call? The only people she knew here in Chicago—Andrea Elliott, Charles Fenwick, the guards, the truckers—wouldn’t be likely to help out. Fewer people in New Hampshire would drop what they were doing and help an accused criminal.

What a sad sight her life was.

If she died, that would be even sadder; the only ones who’d be at the funeral were her parents and brothers. Which meant she should concentrate on finding some good friends or get married and provide herself a family. The pair of thoughts made her laugh out loud. There were no such things as real friends. Everyone in this world was only out for themselves. The idea of a family was equally as ludicrous. Children were dirty and noisy and needy.