On the Hook (8 page)

“Why didn’t she do that with me?”

Smith laughed. “What did she do?”

“She kidnapped me as I was leaving work, literally tossed me into a cab and hijacked me to the airport.”

Smith got up and went to a small table near the window. A sheaf of information, identical to the one Westen had, was strewn across it. Smith picked up an already-open can of beer and drank. Westen cringed. She hated beer. Hated alcohol, except an occasional glass of wine with Ben after a hard day’s work.

Smith returned to sit on the bed, her pajama top getting caught under her hip and pulling the neck too low. A naked breast popped out. Smith didn’t hurry putting it back in place.

“I don’t get why KJ didn’t simply ask me to come here.”

“Probably because of your past histories.”

“Did she think I was so mean spirited that I’d hold a twenty-year old grudge?”

Smith downed the rest of the beer and then rolled her eyes.

Westen grinned. “She would’ve been right. No way I would’ve come willingly.”

“This means a lot to her.”

“I know. But considering her manner of operation, I’m not inclined to feel much sympathy.”

A knock came on the door. Smith shot off the bed, raced into the bathroom and came out holding the hairdryer. Westen rose, grabbed money from her purse, and edged past the too-alert woman. “I ordered room service.”

Smith ducked around the corner into the bathroom holding the hairdryer like a club.

“Later I want you to tell me why you keep doing that.” Westen looked through the peephole and came green eye-to-brown eye. Was she wrong thinking the brown eye looked menacing? Could a person tell that from just one extreme close-up? The man backed away giving a glimpse of pimply skin and a crooked-toothed grin that only added to his menacing expression. He was wearing a shirt with the hotel’s name emblazoned on the left pocket, which really meant nothing. Anybody could get hold of a shirt without a lot of effort.

“Room service.”

Westen eased open the door. She wrapped her fingers around the handle of the wheeled cart, shoved the money into the man’s hand and shut the door in his face. Smith rushed from the bathroom. She knelt beside the cart, inspected it from every angle, then finally got up and stepped back, apparently satisfied there were no weapons of mass destruction under the silver domed cover or beneath the stainless steel shelf.

Smith picked up a knife, sliced the dessert in half, sat on her bed and began eating. Westen took up the other half of the cheesecake before Smith got it in her head to have the whole thing.

She pushed aside the paperwork to sit at the table. While she sipped coffee, she asked what had Smith so worried about intruders. “Do you know something I don’t? Or have you been watching too much television?”

“It makes sense that the bad guy, or guys, would
not
want us here.”

Westen sucked cheesecake from the fork and waved it at Smith. “More ’n likely they’re concentrating on the professional investigators. They don’t know even about us yet.”

“They will tomorrow.”

“Which makes us safe for tonight. Now, go pick up the hairdryer and put it back in the bathroom.”

Smith did retrieve the hairdryer but stuffed it under her pillow, the cord coiled like a snake and dangling toward the carpet. Westen didn’t like the implications of the whole thing, but guessed she should be glad the unpredictable woman didn’t carry a gun inside her jammies.

Over fortification with dessert, they chatted. Well, Westen attempted to chat, to find out where Smith was from, besides Delaware. What she did for hobbies besides play the tuba. What she did for work. Whether she’d ever been married. All to no avail. Smith wasn’t forthcoming with information. Giving up, Westen sat at the table and pored over KJ’s information. Soon Smith joined her.

They discussed a visit to the curator Mr. Charles Fenwick first thing in the morning.

“Do you think we should make an appointment?” Westen asked.

“No way. I think it’s better to surprise him.”

Probably a good idea. “Who do we see after that?”

“I’m thinking the trucking company.” Smith dug into the pile of papers. “Hey, gimme the info about the drivers.”

Westen located it in the envelope. Rather than hand it over—her way of fending off a direct order without provoking a verbal assault—she read from the bio KJ had provided, “Brad Kerrington has worked thirty years for Starfire Trucking. As a teen, he got in with a bad group and stole a car. He did time for GTA and when he got out went to work for Starfire. Been with them ever since. There is a personal note from KJ.

“I didn’t really like him. He gave off a negative aura but since he came highly recommended, both by his boss and Charles Fenwick, I decided my feelings were based more on his personal appearance, which was sloppy. He clearly had no respect for protocol. I was told he was frequently late for work, unshaven and wearing a day-old uniform. Otherwise he had a perfect work and driving record.”

“I wonder if her feelings were based on his skin color,” Smith said.

“KJ and I grew up in Atlanta where there’re a lot of black people.”

“How did she act toward them?”

Westen grinned. “Honestly, I can’t recall her acting nice to anyone, except her clique of four or five girls.”

“I bet they were all white.”

“Yes, but I have no idea whether that was coincidental. Why, what are you thinking?”

Smith shrugged.

“That she might really be behind all this?”

“Part of me thinks so. But, unless she’s playing us for total idiots, why would she go to the trouble and expense of sending us here?”

Now it was Westen’s turn to shrug. “Covering her tracks? Hoping us novices screw things up?”

Smith gave a sharp laugh. “If it’s the first—covering her tracks, she’d hire somebody who knew what they were doing.”

“More likely she’d make sure to hire people who’d bungle things all to hell.”

“Should we look into her background?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised her bosses and the police are doing that as we speak. So, let’s get back to the drivers. Got any thoughts about them? What about the stuff KJ said about not liking that guy Kerrington?”

Smith gave the idea some consideration. “So far KJ’s estimation of both of us was spot-on. She got us here knowing how to deal with each of us. Knowing you’d dig in your heels and refuse to go. Knowing I’d jump at the chance for the money—and she’d only just met me. Using that as a guide, I can assume her impression of Kerrington is right—there is something wrong with him.”

“Let’s keep it in mind for when we meet him. Okay, what about the other driver?”

Westen located his name on the page. “Knox Blake was born and raised in Chicago. He’s 47. Married with two sons, both in their teens. Blake worked for another company across town. He came to Starfire six months ago when his driving partner was killed in a car crash on the way home from one of their cross-country trips. Said he couldn’t stand to be there anymore. Blake has an exemplary driving record. Get this: his wife is pregnant.” Westen laughed. “With two sons ready to go out on their own, I bet that came as a surprise.”

“I bet.”

“Anyway, he and Kerrington have been partnered since he arrived there. They seem to get along well. Both are huge football fans. In my experience, stuff like that is a good bond.”

“Which tells me the divide-and-conquer method won’t work,” Smith said.

“No, but sex might.”

Smith broke into laughter, rolling back onto the bed. “Which one of us is supposed to entice them?”

Westen couldn’t picture either of them in that role. Smith sat up, still snickering. “What was KJ’s personal note about Blake?”

“I was impressed with this man,” Westen read. “Surprised though, that as a driving partner he hasn’t been able to change Kerrington’s personal hygiene habits.” Westen put down the paper. “That’s all she wrote.”

Smith stretched her arms high, yawned, and arched her back. The short nightie raised up and gave a peek at an abdomen that made Westen wonder if the hotel had a gym. She’d been unable to get on the racquetball court in two days. If she didn’t soon, her tummy would start looking like Smith’s.

“I’m exhausted. Let’s turn in.” Smith stood and went to the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, “By the way, KJ called and said you hadn’t had time to pack anything. I got you some toiletries and a couple changes of clothes. I had to guess at your size. I hope everything fits.” She tossed the bags to her.

“Thanks.”

When Smith came out of the bathroom, Westen went in. She was so tired she didn’t do anything but brush her teeth. Checking the wardrobe could wait till morning. Besides, she dreaded what Smith might’ve chosen for her.

She came out of the bathroom wearing the ridiculous nightgown and stood barefoot on the carpet. The drapes were still open, lending a gorgeous panoramic view of the Chicago skyline. Westen opened the sliding door and went onto the deck. The air was brisk; it raised goose bumps on her arms and whipped the gown around her thighs. The moon was high and bright yellow. An aura-like ring surrounded it. She searched her memory but couldn’t recall the meaning of it weather-wise. Hopefully it had nothing to do with doom and gloom; she had enough of that already. Westen went back inside.

“Shut the drapes, okay?”

Westen didn’t feel like getting into a
stop ordering me around
discussion. She closed them and went around to climb into bed. Smith had turned on the television to one of those CSI programs. Someone’s intestines flashed across the screen. Westen yanked the pillow over her head. “Good night,” she called.

“Night.”

“I hope we find that painting. I sure could use the recovery money.”

“Me too. But what I’m more worried about is if we have to tell KJ we failed.”

“Failure is not an option.” This Westen said in total seriousness.

She did her best to ignore the slurpy sounds of the television autopsy. She rarely watched TV, especially this type of show.

Westen woke at 3:15 from a nightmare where she was wearing a neon green jacket and tie-dyed electric blue sweatpants. A mob was chasing her down a sidewalk, begging to be ushered across eight lanes of sixty-mile-an-hour traffic to the beat of an oompah band—all of which would undoubtedly be easier than finding a Picasso that by now could be anywhere in the world.

Chapter Ten

At seven a.m. Wednesday morning, their driver Ryan let them out in front of Starfire Trucking. Westen was ready for investigating, sort of. Though Smith had indeed acquired two outfits of decent enough clothing for her, she’d neglected to include underwear. When faced with queries about this, Smith had laughed and said that since she didn’t wear any, it never dawned on her that Westen might.

So, feeling grubby in two-day-old underwear, Westen settled into the backseat cushion. Beside her, Smith was still waking up; she clutched a gargantuan to-go cup of coffee in one hand. The other held the envelope KJ had provided. They’d thought it best to keep the information close at hand. They’d divvied up the ten thousand dollars. Some had been left back in the hotel; the remainder was with each of them.

From KJ’s information, they knew Starfire was big as trucking companies went. Their fleet of four hundred trucks traveled the US and Mexico from stem to stern and back again. Since Westen was the only one coherent enough to form sentences this early, she approached the booted feet of a man reclining under the enormous cab of a tractor. She nudged the boots with a toe. The body slid out on one of those dollies. Soon, a dark, curly head popped into view.

“Could you point me to where I can find Brad Kerrington?”

The man’s left arm came up, a greasy index finger pointed toward a long building about a hundred feet away. “See the guy with the clipboard? He’s Ed, the foreman, he’ll know where Brad is.”

Westen thanked him and raced toward a paunchy man, probably in his thirties, who was already hurrying in the opposite direction. By the time Westen and Smith reached him, he stood in the middle of a group of men, the clipboard resting on his paunch, giving out assignments for the day.

He noticed the women standing there and gave a nod of his balding head that said he’d be through soon. Westen feared the truckers she sought were amongst this group and would be wheeling away to points unknown before she could get the information out of him.

He finished within five minutes and he turned toward them. His piercing gaze seemed to stab through to Westen’s two-day-old bra. She couldn’t stop her arms from folding around her breasts as he started toward them.

“I think he likes you,” Smith whispered. “Bet he asks you to dinner.”

“Argh, argh, yuk.”

He banged Westen on the back. “Are you all right?”

She managed a nod.

“Something caught in your throat?”

“A bug. I’m fine now.” She cleared her throat to prove her statement. It was all she could do not to flash Smith a glare, or bang
her
on the back.

“I’m Ed Youngblood. May I help you, ladies?” His voice held a smoker’s rasp.

“My name is Westen Hughes. This is Phoebe Smith. We’re looking for Brad Kerrington and Knox Blake.”

Mr. Youngblood’s brown eyes narrowed. “What for?” He’d lost his friendly tone. Westen assumed he wouldn’t be asking her two-day old bra out.

“We’re investigators from New Hampshire Property and Casualty.”

She didn’t think it possible, but his eyes narrowed further. Now they were just tiny slits, no wider than the slot in her paper shredder.

He shook the clipboard at her. “The investigators were here yesterday.” His tone inferred they must be impostors. “They spent the whole day disrupting schedules, checking trucks and generally making nuisances of themselves.”

“We are independents hired by Agent Valentine,” Westen said, not sure how, if at all, that information might help.

The clipboard stopped jabbing in her direction and he nodded. The way he nodded indicated he’d not only met KJ but hadn’t particularly liked her. Well, there was something they had in common. She’d play that card if she had to. For now, she said, “I promise we won’t disrupt anything. We only want to talk to the two drivers.”