On the Hook Page 11

  “We haven’t told anyone. But our boss knows. It’s in a report she gave us,” Westen said.

  “You know it’s going to come out,” Smith said.

  Another small nod.

  Smith waved off the topic. “We’re here because of the Picasso that disappeared. It’s all we really care about.”

  “Investigators were here yesterday. That’s why I thought you—”

  “Did the transfer go as expected?” Westen asked. “Nothing unusual? No unexpected phone calls, no bats flying around the room?”

  He gave the matter consideration then said no. “We followed normal protocol—it’s almost ritualistic in its performance.”

  “I understand you recommended Starfire Trucking.”

  “Certainly. They’ve transported many items for us. There’s never been a single problem.” After a small hesitation, he added, “You don’t think Andrea’s involved, do you?”

  “You know her?” Smith asked.

  “Sure. As I said, our two companies have had a number of dealings.”

  “No ah…further relationship?” Westen asked.

  A small smile appeared on the much-relieved face. “No. She’s got an inflexible rule not to date anyone with whom she does business.”

  Which meant he’d tried. Westen couldn’t make the rejection and the theft connect in her mind so she looked to see if Smith had further questions.

  “Did you interview the drivers?” Smith asked.

  “No. They were the same two we’d used many times before. I didn’t see a need.”

  “Thanks Mr. Fenwick. That’s all for now. If we think of anything else, may we call again?”

  He shot her an embarrassed grin. “Definitely. And I promise—” he performed a Boy Scout cross over his heart—“not to try and escape again.”

  “Wouldn’t do any good,” Smith muttered as they left the room.

  Westen chuckled. She must be pretty pleased with herself after manhandling that teenaged boy.

  ****

  Smith, Westen, and Ryan entered the T&J Bar at just after five thirty. The place was full but not so busy the bartender was rushing around, which hopefully meant they could have an in-depth conversation with her. They slid onto three stools at the horseshoe-shaped bar. The bartender was a youngish woman with blonde hair and green eyes—definitely a magnet for the place. She had an engaging smile and turned it on Ryan almost immediately. Westen felt a bit confused at the jealous twinge that pushed through her. They ordered drinks: two beers and a diet soda.

  Smith leaned forward and spoke across Ryan, “Who’s gonna do the talking?”

  “Wish we had a picture of Knox Blake,” Westen said.

  “We do.” Ryan punched a few buttons on his phone and showed Westen the screen—a picture of Knox standing on the stoop of his apartment building. He had his son by the shirt collar as he dragged him up the steps after the altercation with Smith.

  “You took this?” Westen asked.

  “Yeah,” Ryan said. “Didn’t know if you might need it in court.” He lowered his voice. “I have one of Andy and that foreman too if you need them. And one of Westen on the roof of the trailer.”

  “Was she picking her wedgie?” Smith beckoned to the bartender and showed her the screen. “Do you know this guy?”

  She glanced at the picture. It was clear she recognized him by the way her brows shot up—and then quickly down as she strove to protect her customer. “Nope. Don’t know him.”

  “He’s not in trouble or anything,” Westen said. “Actually, you can help clear him of suspicion in the theft of a very valuable painting.”

  The woman twisted a damp rag in her hands as she considered Westen’s comment for a moment. “Are you talking about that one stolen on its way to the museum someplace on the east coast?”

  “Yes. A Picasso. Knox was driving the truck. And all we’re doing is eliminating people from the police’s suspect list.”

  “You cops?” She regarded Smith in particular. “You don’t look like cops.”

  “We’re insurance investigators.”

  The bartender slapped the towel on the bar. “So, you’re saying, if I swear Knox was here, it’ll clear him of suspicion?”

  “No, because then you’d be in jail for perjury. You see, we already know he drove the truck. He was there when the painting disappeared.”

  “So, whaddya want from me?”

  “All we need, pretty lady, is a character reference,” Ryan said in what sounded to Westen like a come-hither kind of voice. The bartender’s expression softened instantly.

  Westen nearly grinned. This man really knew how to handle women.

  “I don’t know him very well. He comes in now and then, shoots some pool with the regulars and then goes home.”

  “Does he bet on the games?” Ryan asked.

  “Sure, they all do.”

  “Win or lose?”

  “Both, I guess.” The bartender’s suspicion grew again. She pointed a brightly painted pink finger at him. “You’re trying to drag me into telling something about money. Like whether he lost enough to need that kinda dough.”

  “Did he?”

  She gave a snide laugh. “None of these guys are in that category.”

  “He married?” Smith asked.

  The woman tilted her head and snapped. “You are investigators, I’m sure you already know he’s married with two nearly-grown sons and a kid on the way.”

  Westen did her own placating. “It’s that kind of information that corroborates things we’ve been told.”

  “What kind of person is he?” Ryan asked.

  “Quiet, for the most part.”

  “Unless he drinks too much?”

  The bartender smiled. “Right.” She slapped the rag against her palm. “It’s that younger son who can really rile him. If I could have a nickel for every time the kid’s hit on me. Or every time I’ve had him thrown out of here. He’s nothing but trouble. We had to ban him from coming in again. Tore the place up a couple of times. Wouldn’t pay for the damage.”

  “His dad wasn’t angry you threw him out?”

  “Hell no, he was glad. The kid’s a major embarrassment.”

  “Do you know the other son?” Westen asked.

  “Harry? Sure. Nice guy. Never know he and Devon were brothers. You know he’s at Yale, right? Another thing different from brother Devon, who just dropped out of high school.”

  “How long’s Harry been gone?”

  “He’s a freshman.” She held up a finger for them to wait a minute, bent and came up with a cell phone. “He sent us this.” Ginger punched a couple of buttons and the image of a handsome teen wearing a blue suit coat and tie popped on the screen.

  Smith whistled. Ginger smiled.

  “Has Knox been in lately?” Westen sneaked a glance over her shoulder and barely heard the bartender say, “Not for a couple of nights,” because she’d spotted a familiar face.

  Andrea Elliott, the owner of Starfire Trucking was seated in a corner booth. A half-full glass of something amber colored sat on a coaster in front of her. Nothing unusual in that; she’d admitted to being here on occasion. The eye-opening thing was the identity of the man practically sitting in her lap.

  As Westen gawked, the couple rose from the table and moved to the dance floor where a country ballad oozed from a speaker near the ceiling. Ed Youngblood gathered Andrea in his arms and they moved gracefully around the open space.

  What did they see in each other? Andrea was beautiful, feminine and young, probably in her early thirties. Youngblood had to be over sixty, with a paunch and receding gray hair—a seriously unlikely match. Unless they were some sort of business partners. But that would preclude the way they were dancing, right?

  “I assume you know who they are?” asked the bartender.

  “Yeah,” Ryan said. “They come here a lot?”

  “Two or three nights a week.”

  “They an item?” Smith asked.

  “I thi
nk so. I have the idea at least one of them is married. They never come in together but they often leave at the same time.”

  “Let’s get a table,” Westen suggested.

  They ordered a fresh round of drinks and found a table in a dark corner to see if anything unfolded between Andrea and Ed, or if Knox showed up. Ryan tried to strike up a chitchat session, but outside of naming a few favorite bands: Demon Hunter and In Mourning—and movies: 21 Jump Street and Resident Evil (Westen made a note to never go to a concert or theater with her)—Smith remained a clam about her past.

  After two dances quite up-close in nature, Andrea and Ed Youngblood returned to their corner where they engaged in serious-looking conversation. They paid little attention to anyone else in the room, even when, about an hour later, Knox Blake arrived alone. Not that Westen expected him to bring along his pregnant wife.

  It was almost eleven o’clock. Westen’s eyes were burning. She was about to suggest she return to the hotel while Ryan and Smith, who seemed bright-eyed and alert, remained to keep vigilance when the trucking company owner and the foreman stood up. He tossed some money on the table. As they passed toward the door, they waved goodbye to the bartender.

  Westen, Smith and Ryan did likewise, sneaking almost on tiptoe outside behind the oddly matched couple. Westen had just cleared the left-hand door when her left arm was grasped and she was wrenched sideways. Instinct had her groping for a handhold to keep from tumbling to the sidewalk but nothing was there and she landed hard on the pavement. When her vision cleared, Andrea Elliott stood glaring down at her.

  She reached to help Westen to her feet. “Why on earth did you do that?” Westen asked.

  Andrea used her body to nudge Westen to the side of the double doors where Ryan had already been corralled by Ed Youngblood. Smith stood nearby, fists clenched, but so far keeping under control. And probably wishing she’d brought the hairdryer.

  “What’s the big idea following us?” Youngblood asked.

  “Following you? We were there first.”

  Ryan shook loose of Youngblood’s grasp. “The ladies have been hired to find that painting. When suspects lie and act in a suspicious manner, it makes them curious and the result is sometimes surveillance.”

  “Suspects!” Youngblood seemed incredulous. “Us? Why?”

  “Because you’re retiring to a place and opening a business that requires lots and lots of money.”

  “And nowhere in your feeble, tiny brains did you figure that somebody could’ve been saving for this their entire life?”

  “Yup,” Smith said. “Till just about the time you’re seen climbing inside the clothes of a woman who owns a business that’s about to be taken over by a rival trucking company. And who, somehow, forgot to mention it to investigators. And…who swears up and down she doesn’t mix business with pleasure.”

  Two faces turned on them: Andrea, aghast; Youngblood, surprised. About what? That there was something his lover had neglected to mention?

  “There will be no takeover!” Andrea shouted, then checked to see if anyone had overheard. “It will not happen. Besides, it’s none of your business. It has nothing to do with the theft of the painting.”

  “You see,” Smith said softly, “that’s what makes us suspicious. If it’s nothing…if it’s not gonna happen, why didn’t you see fit to mention it?”

  “I didn’t mention I’m a borderline diabetic or that my father’s in a wheelchair either but that doesn’t make either thing related to the theft.”

  “You’re nitpicking,” Smith said, not so soft-voiced now.

  “As far as I’m concerned, so are you. There will be no takeover. My father can, and has offered, to bail me out, but I’m doing what I can on my own.”

  “Like stealing mega-expensive paintings?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Most of the ride back to the hotel was spent laughing. And ignoring KJ’s calls alternating back and forth from Smith to Westen’s phones. After the sixth snubbed call, Ryan’s phone rang. He laughed and let it go to voicemail, which he played for them once it finished recording. It was short and not very sweet. “Where the hell are those two women? What’s going on? Ryan! Somebody call me or I’m phoning the police.” Before the message clicked off, she added, “You’d better not be hurt.”

  “Aw shucks,” Smith said, “I didn’t know she cared.”

  “I get the idea Kendra Jean doesn’t care for anyone but herself,” Ryan said. “Which one of you is calling her back?”

  “Smith. It’s her turn.”

  “Why my turn?”

  “I called last time. Best if one of us doesn’t have to take all her baloney.” To Ryan, Westen added, “We’ll check in later, after we’ve had a nice meal—”

  “And a biiiig drink,” Smith chimed in.

  For the first time since the night of Ben’s death, Westen wanted a drink. She didn’t like to recall the night after Ben’s death when she’d found a bottle of his whiskey—and finished it. It was the one time she’d let go. And she didn’t like the feeling. Tonight though, with friends about, she might splurge. Maybe it was time to let her hair down a bit.

  “So,” Smith said as they climbed from the car, “are you coming in?”

  Ryan shook his head. “I think I’ll keep an eye out for a while—in case Mr. Youngblood or Ms. Elliott get it into their heads to follow us. Thanks though.”

  Smith and Westen made tracks to the steakhouse on the ground floor of the hotel. Each ordered the biggest steak—well done for Westen and rare for Smith. Each ordered a drink: beer for Smith, a mojito for Westen.

  “Do you think Andrea or Mr. Youngblood have anything to do with the painting being stolen?” Smith asked.

  “My opinion is no. I think she’s a proud woman who’ll—”

  “Do anything to save her business,” Smith finished.

  Westen laughed, feeling a bit woozy from the mojito. “No, I think she’s legit. The fact that she doesn’t want to ask her father for the money says a lot about her as a person.”

  “Maybe you’re right. We are looking into it further, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah. I want—I want to see the owner of Wayne Trucking, the one who’s trying to take over Starfire. Be good to get the owner’s pers-perspective.”

  Neither of them spoke again till they were halfway through their meal. “Tell me your thoughts about Mr. Fenwick,” Smith said.

  Westen popped a piece of meat in her mouth. “This steak isn’t half bad.”

  “You should eat meat more often.”

  Westen shrugged. “Bad for you,” she said around a mouthful. “Okay, you go first.”

  “Where were we?”

  “You were g-going to talk about Mr. Fenwick.”

  Smith started to speak, probably to disagree, but changed her mind and said, “I am amazed at your ability to read people. I had only one thought—that he’d bullied his mother. Couldn’t see beyond that.” She used the small knife to cut the end off a fresh loaf of bread and spread butter on it. “I had to stop myself from leaping across his desk and popping him one.”

  Westen swallowed the steak and chased it with a long swallow of the rum drink. She tilted her head and watched Smith take a bite from the bread. “Thanks for the compliment.”

  “You make it sound like I never give one.”

  “If you do, I’ve yet t-to be a recipient. You argue with everything I suggest. You never agree with any…thing.”

  “Do too.”

  “Since we left New Hampshire, the only thing you agreed with was my idea t-to eat here before going upstairs.”

  “No offense, but if there’s an offer of food, I’ll probably agree to most anything.” Smith pointed her fork at Westen’s plate. “Unless you keep ordering healthy crap.”

  “I ordered steak. Th-that’s not healthy.” Westen was stuffed but was determined not to leave a morsel on the plate. The squash was cooked and seasoned perfectly. The salad dressing homemade. The bread fresh from the oven. “And I
got this marvelous mojito.” To prove she didn’t only eat healthy things, she took a large sip from the glass.

  Smith broke into a fit of laughter. “You’ve only had one drink and you’re sloshed.”

  “Am not.” Westen took a smaller sip. “I might like to get used to it though. This is very good.”

  “When you’re sober and the hangover is gone, I’ll remind you.”

  “I won’t get hungover-er.”

  On the edge of the table, Smith’s phone vibrated so hard it nearly knocked itself over the edge. Westen giggled. “You can tell from the way it’s shaking that it’s got to be KJ.”

  Smith checked the ID. “It’s Ryan.”

  “Hey, Ryan, change your mind about c—”

  Her mirth evaporated. “Okay. Right away.” She dropped the phone in her pocket as she jumped up from the table.

  A waiter raced over. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s great. But we have to go. Would you send two slices of blueberry cheesecake and another of each of these drinks to our room?”

  “Certainly ma’am.”

  Smith’s “Don’t call me ma’am,” was said so sharply he leaped back. She left him a large tip—with KJ’s cash. Before he hurried off to get the dessert, she stopped him. “And if anyone comes asking, you haven’t seen us.”

  “Of course.”

  “As a matter of fact, you don’t know us.”

  “Or,” Westen chimed in, “you c-could admit to knowing us and tell who…whoever that we mentioned staying at another hotel and just came here for the fantastic mojitos.”

  The waiter brightened. “Good idea. If anyone asks, I’ll have a good story ready. I’ll let the rest of the staff know.”

  “Instead of drinks, you’d better make that a pot of coffee.” Smith added another twenty to his palm then grasped the front of Westen’s blouse and pulled. “C’mon. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “What?” Westen laughed. “Is KJ comin’ to get her mojito back?”

  Smith pulled harder on Westen’s blouse. Before it came off in her hand, Westen hurried behind her. “Tell me whaz going on.”

  “Trouble. Big trouble.”

  They took the stairs because, at the moment they passed the stairway door, not a soul was in sight. Nobody to spy on them.