On the Hook (4 page)

“How’s the snake doing?”

“Settling in well, thanks. Named her Jeanette.”

Jeanette? O-ookay.

Westen introduced her to KJ who’d managed to dry her eyes and pull herself together. “She bought a corn snake earlier today.”

“A snake? That’s nice.”

Smith nudged Westen’s arm. “Shove over.”

Westen flicked a glance at KJ, who didn’t seem to mind company. Perhaps she needed a reprieve from the hundred million thoughts volcanoing in her head.

The waitress brought the coffee and hot chocolate then was sent scurrying for a cup of herbal tea for Smith. None of the three spoke until it arrived.

Smith was the first to break the silence. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you said.” When no one reacted, she added, “You know, about the painting.” Still neither Westen nor KJ spoke. “I know how you can get it back.”

Those words perked KJ into a semblance of alertness. “You do?”

“Sure. Hire me and Westen to find it.”

Did she say what Westen thought she said? Why was she being dragged into this wild painting chase?

No need to respond. The way KJ was laughing said the idea sounded just as ludicrous to her.

“What makes you qualified?” KJ asked.

“What kind of qualifications can a person need? Eyes and brains. Between us we got ’em in spades.” She frowned. “Not sure what that means though.”

“It’s from contract bridge,” Westen said, “where the suit of spades is ‘trump’ where a spade of whatever point value will beat any card from another suit…or at least beats a card of equal or lesser value.”

Smith gave her the eye. “Do you really think people want answers to rhetorical questions?”

Westen smirked and shrugged. “You don’t want an answer, don’t ask the question.”

“Let’s get back to the subject,” Smith said. “I want to help find it. And Westen needs money, so she’ll help too.”

“The insurance companies will never go along with it,” Westen said.

“They don’t have to know. Till we’ve brought the painting back. Now,” Smith leaned closer, her hair falling unnoticed into her teacup, “give us the skinny.”

Chapter Four

Did she really say,
give us the skinny
? Wasn’t Smith from Delaware? Did they talk like that there?

KJ didn’t seem to notice Smith’s street-gang grammar. She seemed so happy to have someone—anyone—offering a way out of her cavernous dilemma. “See, the thing is, there’s no way the painting could’ve been stolen.”

Westen’s soft, “But it was,” received a pair of full-eyed glares from both Smith and KJ.

“More details,” Smith demanded. “Saying it couldn’t have been stolen erases the fact that it was.”

Westen’s coffee grew cold as KJ’s tale unfolded. She’d gone to Chicago a week ago to prepare for the transfer of the painting. KJ handed Westen a photocopy of Picasso’s The Old Guitarist. It was a typical work of his, with body parts out of proportion. At least this subject had its face on right.

“Painted in 1903, it led the way for others of his Blue Period,” KJ said.

“Blue period?” Smith asked.

“It defines Picasso’s depression between 1901 and 1904,” Westen clarified. “Most of the pieces he did during that time were monochromatic—in shades of blue and blue-green.”

Smith acted as though she was about to chastise her for dishing out more useless trivia, but KJ’s, “Yes, that’s right!” stopped her.

Westen couldn’t help shooting her a smirk, and adding, “Since it essentially marks the beginning of that period, the piece is just about priceless.”

“How big is the painting?” Smith asked.

“Approximately thirty-two by forty-eight inches.”

“So it’s good-sized. How was it shipped—UPS or something?”

“No way! I wouldn’t—” KJ pulled in a breath and let it out so hard she blew ripples in the hot chocolate’s whipped cream surface. “Like I said, I went to Chicago to supervise the arrangements. Everything was done by me and me alone. I chose the trucking company and talked the other three insurance companies into helping out. I interviewed the two drivers and hand picked four security guards. I—”

“Guards?” asked Westen.

“Yes. Armed men who stayed during the entire packing of the painting in the crate. They remained on-scene while the crate was loaded on the truck. And they rode two to a car from Chicago to Concord. A lead car stayed mere feet in front of the truck during the whole trip. A trailing car stayed just feet from the rear bumper—”

“What kind of truck?”

“A tractor with a sleeper hauling a twenty foot trailer. She leaned forward. “The whole way.”

“After the cars and truck left, then you flew back to New Hampshire?” Smith dipped the teabag up and down creating a tidal wave of pee-colored liquid that sloshed over the side.

“Heavens no,” KJ said. “I wasn’t letting that truck out of my sight. I rode in the trailing car all the way to Buffalo where the crate was unloaded and stored in their museum safe for the night. I unpacked it myself. I supervised its storage. I checked it again in the morning and supervised the loading. It was
in the crate
at that time. All the way from Buffalo, I swear I didn’t take my eyes from the truck for a moment. It could not be gone.”

Smith voiced Westen’s thoughts. “It’s what—an eight hour ride? You didn’t have to um, stop?”

“Actually nine hours from Buffalo. We did not stop. We did not get fuel. We didn’t stop for food or bathroom.”

“Sounds funny nobody had to piss for all that time.”

Crudely said but right on target. Westen definitely couldn’t go nine hours—

“Okay, so you drove nonstop from Buffalo to New Hampshire,” Smith continued, though with a bit of doubt lacing her tone.

“Right. At the museum, we waited in the car while the truck backed to the dock. I met the curator on the dock. The whole parking process didn’t take two minutes. It was the only time I couldn’t see the back doors. The drivers and the curator, Henderson McGee, unloaded the crate. I supervised the entire procedure. As soon as the crate was unloaded from the dolly, he sent the drivers on their way. Then we all—the group included sixteen board members—gathered around to watch the unveiling.”

“Where was this—the warehouse?” Smith asked.

“Yes.” KJ gave a rueful smile. “I’d prepared a speech. You know, telling how happy we were to have the Picasso to spotlight our Arts Display. But I was exhausted—”

“And you had to pee.” This from Smith.

KJ continued as if uninterrupted. “Henderson was a bit miffed because we were an hour late.”

“Why were you late anyway?”

“We got caught in traffic on the highway. There had been a car accident. Anyway, we opted to open the crate and save the speeches for the unveiling tomorr—er, today.” Now, she did look exhausted, as if telling the story sucked every last ounce of energy. “As you have already deduced, the crate was empty. It can’t have happened but it did. It was there when we left Buffalo and it wasn’t there when we got to New Hampshire.”

“Were there any distractions during the loading in Buffalo, or the unloading in Concord? Anything—even something minute that you didn’t think important at the time. Maybe something that occurred while you were caught in traffic.”

KJ shook her head. “I have done nothing but run this through my head since it happened. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. The traffic jam was nothing much. We never actually stopped. We just moved about 35 miles an hour instead of 65.”

Of course she had thought about it. Those were the kind of details KJ excelled at.

“Tell me about the packaging—the crate, how it was stored in the truck.”

“The painting was enclosed in bubble wrap then put into a fitted velvet bag. The bag was slipped into a wooden container about four inches thick—just a little more than the thickness of the frame so it couldn’t jiggle around. A compartment had been built in the center to exactly fit the wood container that held the painting. The crate itself was wood—a six-foot cube shape. Padlocked shut. There were two keys for the padlock. I had one and Charles Fenwick, the Chicago curator, had the other.”

“What exactly was taken? Just the painting? Or the entire crate?” Westen asked.

“The painting, the velvet bag and the bubble wrap.”

“What time did you discover the painting missing?” Westen thought maybe she should be taking notes but till this minute the idea hadn’t occurred to her. Probably wouldn’t be hard to get a report from KJ, the insurance company or even the cops.

“Seven-twelve yesterday evening, exactly. I spent the following eleven hours first at the museum and then the police station going over and over the events.”

That explained why she looked like she’d been on a bender. In a sense, she had—an emotional bender.

“I suppose the general consensus is that you took it.”

“Right. They have absolutely no basis for thinking this—”

“Except you were the only one involved in every aspect of the transfer.”

“Right. They’re as out of answers as I am.”

“Which means they might not work too hard trying to find it and be happy pinning it on you.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Do you have any theories?”

“Not a single one. It’s not possible to have happened, yet it did.” KJ dipped a spoon into the cup and skimmed off the melted whipped cream. It left a film around her lips but neither Westen nor Smith commented. “So, will you help get it back?”

Smith leaned forward, her hair again drowning in the cup. “Of course. How much does this pay?”

“As I said, I’m not sure they’ll okay you guys to look for it.”

“I’ve heard they pay ten percent of the insured amount,” Smith said.

Westen felt her eyes widening behind her wire-rimmed glasses. Ten percent of a hundred million was—she lost track of the zeros, but one thing was certain, it would pay all her bills and then some.

KJ threw some cash on the table. She stood up to leave. “I’ll talk to my boss and the other companies. Let’s meet here at 7 a.m. and I’ll let you know what they said.”

“If he says okay, bring a contract,” Smith called.

KJ walked away on three-inch heels. Westen was jealous—she had trouble standing on two-inch ones.

“Seven a.m.?” Smith squeaked.

Westen laughed. “Not a morning person?”

“I’m rarely in bed before midnight. It’s kinda hard to get up before at least nine.”

“I think you’ll manage this time.”

Smith finished her tea and thumped the cup in the saucer. “Wouldn’t it be fabulous if we could find that painting?”

“Sure would.”

“What would you do with the recovery fee? Besides dumb things like paying bills, I’d buy a new tuba.”

A tuba? Had she heard right?

“The one I have is all dented. I found it in an apartment we moved into when I was ten.”

“You play the tuba?” A loud, repeating oompah started playing in her head. Westen wanted to clap her hands over her ears to block it out.

“…what would you buy?” Smith asked.

Clearly, she’d missed a sentence or two. Westen shook off the disorientation produced by the Bavarian band. “An apartment,” she said. “A penthouse. I own a home now but I’d really like a place without upkeep. Something on a top floor where I could look out over the city. I want a tiny rooftop garden.”

“You’re easy to please.”

Westen shrugged and slipped into her jacket. Easy maybe, but something like that was so far out of reach she might’ve been craving a trip to Mars. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

Smith got up too. “You sound apprehensive.”

“You can’t really believe we’ll find the thing. By now, some of the best investigators in the world are working on it. I bet by morning the painting is back in Chicago safe and sound.”

“Probably,” said Smith, sadly.

She followed Smith out into the brisk May air, her feet marching to the beat of the men in lederhosen.

Chapter Five

KJ practically skipped all the way home. Until an hour ago she’d felt as low as a snake. No, very bad example—her exes were snakes; Cliff Barnett was a snake—and she’d never sunk as low as either of them, though she got close when she agreed to go out with Cliff.

Funny how fast life can change. In the course of a few hours, things had made a total turnaround. Not that the Picasso was any closer to being found, but at least something positive was being done. Though she’d never liked Westen Hughes—never thought her smart enough to tear her way out of a paper bag—the woman was dedicated. One might call her dogged. KJ remembered a time the yearbook staff was suffering a delay with the printer. Westen sat all night at the print shop to make sure the job was done on time. “Just because we’re kids,” she’d said, “doesn’t mean they can walk all over us.”

Setting Westen Hughes on the quest for the painting was a brilliant idea. Once she started something she would not quit. Lack of experience as an investigator didn’t matter. All Westen had to do in Chicago was ask questions—questions supplied by KJ—and report back to KJ who
could
put pieces together.

The addition of the colorful hick named Smith—what sort of woman wanted to be called by their surname—was a brainstorm of genius proportions. Westen had the tenacity needed to be a successful investigator, but she lacked balls, strength. The Smith woman provided all that. Granted, she wasn’t overly big, but she was tough. Sometimes in a difficult situation, all you needed was toughness. Like this morning with Limp Cliff. Ms. Smith’s brawn would’ve come in handy.

“So…” said a familiar voice, as a person stepped alongside her.

KJ stopped walking. The newcomer had gone three paces then suddenly stopped too. Sergeant Charlene Bartowski—with whom KJ had spent several hours already today—whirled around and came back.

“So what?” KJ asked.

“Feeling free? Vindicated?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” KJ gripped the handle of her briefcase a bit tighter.

“You’re looking all relaxed and fancy-free. Like a girl without a care in the world.”

“It’s not like that.”

“What is it like?”

“You wouldn’t understand…or care,” KJ said.

“Whatever’s given you the idea I don’t care?”

“Look Sergeant, it’s your job to find clues against me. It’s my job to prove I’m innocent. Has it dawned on you that I don’t have a motive? In a totally unselfish manner”—admittedly the first in her miserable life—“I was bringing the painting to benefit the people of the state of New Hampshire.”