On the Hook (30 page)

“Definitely not.”

“Excuse me?”

Westen peered up. Sergeant Bartowski stood there reading the paperwork upside down. “You are really going to do it?”

“Yes. It’s only right.”

“You think she’s innocent?”

“I do.”

“You going to tell me the identity of the thieves?”

“Sure.” Westen stood and leaned across to whisper in her ear.

“That right?”

Westen laughed. “That’s exactly how Smith will react when I tell her.”

“Where is she anyway?”

“I don’t know. She dropped me off last night and wasn’t back by the time I left the house this morning.”

“Did she tell you her car got repo’d last week? I learned when I did a credit search on you two.”

A credit check? Darn. “She didn’t say anything but that explains why she keeps borrowing my car.”

The sergeant went off to her duties. Westen wrote out a check for KJ’s bail. It hurt in almost a physical way as she put the signature on the bottom—for the first time in her life she’d stood to be debt free—and it was gone in the blink of an eye. Wouldn’t matter if she could find the painting.

A half hour later, paperwork was signed and triplicated. With only a small hesitation on Kendra Jean Valentine’s part, the release went smoothly. Although she’d been allowed to shower and change for court, KJ looked awful. The stress of the past few days must’ve been awful. KJ, for the first time in the week they’d re-known each other, said thanks.

“Smith has my car, so I can’t offer to drive you anywhere,” Westen said. “I took a cab here.”

“If you want to call one and ride with me to the airport, I’ll get my car out of long-term parking, then you can take me home and borrow it,” KJ said.

Westen tried not to stare at the redheaded woman beside her. While in jail somebody seemed to have stolen the real KJ and replaced her with a considerate person.

“You sure you won’t need it?”

“No, I’m going home to take a really long, hot bath and sleep for a week.” They rode in silence for a couple of miles, KJ looking vaguely out the side window of the cab at the passing traffic.

“Mind telling me why you hesitated to go with me?”

KJ gave a quick chuckle. “Theo Tuttle showed up at the court yesterday. He came all the way from Chicago. He promised to raise the bail money. I guess a little part of me wanted to wait for him.”

“I don’t think he’ll mind.”

“Probably not.” A few minutes later, she asked, “Anything new on the case?”

“Actually, yes. I’m not going to tell you details because I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I know how the theft happened and who did it. What I don’t yet know is where the painting is.”

Kendra Jean’s eyes lit up for the first time. “When will you know?”

“As I told the sergeant—no later than noon tomorrow. I have a bit of research to do this morning.”

“Good.” Then KJ leaned back in the passenger seat.

Definitely not the old KJ. The old one would’ve badgered Westen—possibly getting physical—till she broke and told everything she knew. She’d also insist on going along, to be up close and personal. To get the credit.

Why hadn’t Westen said more? Probably because she wasn’t a hundred percent sure that KJ wasn’t in some way involved. There was always the chance she’d worked in conjunction with the drivers.

They picked up KJ’s car. The only other words she spoke were to give directions to her home, a nice high-rise building in Concord. Kendra Jean got out. She didn’t invite Westen in, which was nice because though she wanted to see where KJ lived, she was more anxious to close this case before any of those other investigators figured things out.

Westen was tooling along the travel lane on Route 293 back toward Concord in a well-equipped Ford sedan when a big, fancy car passed on the left. She didn’t think much about it until it zipped into the lane in front of her and slammed on its brakes. Westen got onto the brakes and stopped the car, miraculously not striking the idiot who’d cut her off. She leaned her head on the steering wheel to catch her breath. Then realized they could be struck from behind at any moment.

Something—it sounded like a fist—banged on the driver’s window. Westen was immediately hit with an image of road rage she’d seen on television. She groped in her handbag for the cell phone.

The person pounded again. And shouted at her. His voice was muffled by the noise of the cars racing by but she caught several curse words and threats. Why was he threatening her? She hadn’t done anything. Even if she’d been going too slowly, there had been plenty of room to get around KJ’s car.

Westen closed her right fist around the only ‘weapon’ she could find—her handbag—and lifted her head to look at him from under the brim of her hat. He gestured for her to lower the window. Westen shook her head. He pounded again, this time with a long metal thing that, just as the window shattered, she realized was a tire iron. Why weren’t any of these speeding cars stopping to help?

He reached in to unlock the door and yanked it open. Then he gripped the shoulder of her new coat and dragged her out of the car.

By this time, Westen’s adrenaline was pumping like a fire hose. The handbag came out along with her. She’d barely braced her feet on the pavement when she swung it at his head, careful to make direct contact because if she missed, he still had the tire iron. The blow staggered him. It wasn’t enough to debilitate, but it was enough time for Westen to snatch the iron from his fingers.

She backed sideways so she wasn’t up against the car and held the iron over her head. She swung it in his direction to give the idea she wasn’t against using it if he forced the issue. He brushed back a curl of dark hair that had fallen in his face. His deep brown eyes widened.

Who was this man? Why had he stopped her?

“You’re not Kendra Jean.”

“No kidding, Sherlock.”

“What are you doing in Kendra Jean’s car?”

Westen shook the iron again. It made her feel larger, stronger, faster—the hundred million dollar lady. “What do you want with KJ?”

Someone came from Westen’s left and barreled into the man, toppling him to the ground. The newcomer crashed down on top of him. The man stood and gestured for Westen to hand him the weapon, which she was more than happy to do. More people came, some helping the newcomer, some asking if she was okay. One of them was on the phone, and it wasn’t two minutes before a cruiser slid to a stop, blocking the travel lane on the highway. He quickly took the prisoner to his car and wrote down details of the incident.

“Who is that man?” She bent to look into the police car’s backseat.

The officer checked his notes. “His ID says his name is Cliff Barnett. Do you know him?”

Westen shook her head and leaned against the car so her legs wouldn’t buckle. “I don’t think I—” Wait, the name was growing familiar. This was the guy KJ called Limp Cliffy. She told the policeman he worked at the same place as KJ, the real owner of the car.

“Where is she?”

“Home.” Westen almost blurted that KJ was sleeping off two days in jail, but that probably wouldn’t have made the best impression.

“Okay, I’ll check into it. Are you all right to drive?”

“Yes. A bit shaky but I’m fine.” She thanked all the people who’d come to the rescue and drove to the hall of records, stopping for a fresh coffee.

The deed she sought had only been recorded three weeks ago, so it didn’t take long to find. Westen left the building on wings of air. She drove past the property in question but didn’t stop. There’d be plenty of time tomorrow, and she’d bring reinforcements.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Westen returned home at dinnertime to find Smith had not only arrived but had prepared a shepherd’s pie and garlic bread. They sat across from each other in the kitchen while Westen related details of the day.

Smith gaped wide-eyed when she told of being accosted on the highway by Cliff Barnett. She went even wider-eyed when Westen told the location of the painting. “At least, I’m pretty sure that’s where it is.”

After dinner, they Googled Cliff Barnett and learned he was Kendra Jean’s supervisor at NH Property and Casualty. His online social page said he loved someone at work. An old entry inferred it was unrequited. A later entry—just four days ago—insinuated he’d made
significant
progress
with her. Westen couldn’t help wondering if he was the one, rather than Brett Hartshorn, who’d fabricated the information leading to Kendra Jean’s arrest. Possibly he planned to blackmail her into being with him. That would be up to the police to determine. It was only her job to locate that painting.

Early Wednesday morning, Smith and Westen drove in two separate vehicles to pick KJ up at her apartment. There they left KJ’s Ford. Next stop was the diner near the museum where they planned to have breakfast and wait for Sergeant Bartowksi. At that time, Westen and Smith filled Kendra Jean in on how, when the drivers had left the museum, they’d hurried to Kerrington’s newly purchased factory and switched trailers. Then, as the call came from Henderson McGee, they’d sped back to the museum leaving the painting behind. KJ’s expression as she chewed her English muffin was similar to the one Smith had worn while learning the same details.

Sergeant Charlene Bartowski arrived as they were finishing breakfast. She shook rain off her uniform cap and slid into a chair beside Westen announcing proudly, “I brought the bolt cutters like you asked.”

“Great.” Westen pushed up from the table and buttoned her raincoat. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

They raced through the rain to their respective vehicles and in seconds, arrived at the property next to the daycare. The colorful children’s playthings were an incongruous contrast to the dull, abandoned factory building with siding that dangled in the rainy breeze. Westen’s research learned it had once been a tuna fish canning company. The lower floor was devoid of windows. The only opening was a huge garage door. In the door was a smaller people-sized opening. It was padlocked—with a shiny new lock.

The sergeant used the bolt cutters on the lock. It dropped into an evidence bag.

“The padlock was what drew my attention to the place,” Westen said. “If the building had been abandoned for as long as it appeared, the lock would’ve been rusty or at least weathered. Brad Kerrington passed papers on this place less than a month ago.”

“What made you think it was him?” the sergeant asked.

“It had to be one of the truckers because they were the only ones in possession of the trailer at all times. Although KJ thought she was…” Westen left the line hanging and shot Kendra Jean a confidence-building glance.

The sergeant gave a guilty laugh. “We were all focused on what happened to the trailer
before
it arrived here.”

“I don’t understand,” KJ said. “The painting was in the crate. The crate was in the trailer. We took the crate out. There was no painting…”

“Yes.” Smith pulled open the door. It swung on squeaky hinges. “The painting wasn’t in the crate by then.”

There, backed into the right hand side of the large open factory space, was the trailer—the one KJ had followed so diligently from Chicago, Illinois.

“We’re not sure when or where it happened,” Smith continued, “only Knox Blake or Brad Kerrington can tell you, but at some point, Brad—who had driven the Chicago to Buffalo leg of the trip and was now the passenger—climbed out the window, made his way around the sleeper and into the trailer through that small trap door.” She pointed to the door, which was latched with a tiny gold plated hasp.

“He opened the crate by unscrewing the hinges on the back, removed the painting, including the bubble wrap and velvet bag and… I guess it’d be easier to just show you where it is.”

The four women walked around to the rear of the trailer. The double doors were latched but not sealed. Smith undid the latch and swung the doors open to reveal the long, gaping space.

Undaunted by the emptiness, Westen and Smith took hold of opposite sides and pulled themselves up. Kendra Jean and the sergeant remained below, each wearing identical looks of confusion and awe.

“All right, so he got into the trailer while it was moving, took out the painting and crawled back into the cab?” the sergeant said.

“No.” Westen’s voice echoed. “He had nowhere to dispose of it. He knew he’d be searched thoroughly once the theft was discovered.” She gestured for the sergeant and KJ to climb inside. Once they were in, she waved for Smith to do the honors.

Smith spun around and walked to the front of the trailer. She groped between the wood and metal walls, her arm disappearing to the elbow. In a second, she drew out a large bubble-wrapped package.

She knelt and laid it on the floor, then let KJ open the parcel. In seconds, it lay there before them—The Old Guitarist had been found. After a moment with all four mentally appraising the painting, Smith replaced the wrapping. The sergeant radioed headquarters for a team to come process the scene and then walked around the area taking photos. Then she hopped from the trailer. Smith handed the painting down to her, while the others got out and shut the trailer doors.

“Kerrington was the one who devised the plan. He has some serious money issues. His wife is battling pancreatic cancer.”

“The expenses must be staggering.”

“They are. I learned last night that he took her to one of the world’s most prestigious cancer treatment centers in Goodyear, Arizona.”

“That all makes sense,” KJ said, “but how did he get Knox Blake to go along with his plan?”

“Remember his son Devon, the one always in trouble with the law? Knox is always bailing the kid out of jail. But the biggest money-sucker, and the most incentive is the tuition for his
good
son to Yale. He knew he’d be paying on both sons forever and couldn’t resist the chance to get himself out of debt.”

A horn beeped from outside the building. The sergeant pulled a worn rope to open the garage door. The rain beat relentlessly on the pavement as a large box truck entered. Several officers disembarked.

“I know I haven’t been very forthcoming with praise or thanks through all this.” KJ hugged both Smith and Westen.