On the Hook Page 13

  “This is the only time you will be warned. Call off the investigators you sent to Chicago—or else.” The line went dead.

  KJ flung the phone; she couldn’t help the fit of pique. When would this nightmare end? What did other people do when the world was squeezing the life out of them?

  Easy answer. They became proactive. But hadn’t she been doing that—making things happen? Sure—that’s why the threats came. So, maybe that was a good thing. It meant they were getting close.

  Unless the caller had been Brett trying to frighten her into running to him. Running she might do—if things kept heating up around her—but certainly not in Brett’s direction. Had the voice sounded like him? She wasn’t sure. It could’ve been him disguising it. It wouldn’t take much to fool her; she was no manner of detective. Thinking of Brett made her remember how he’d turned up at the phone booth. She dumped all the clothes from the suitcase and went over every stitch looking for a bug or tracking device. No, it had to be a bug because if it was a tracker, he’d know where she was and be here by now.

  Piece by piece, she threw the clothing in a pile on the bed. It was useless. He couldn’t have known which clothes she’d bring. KJ checked shoes and the hat she’d taken from the closet shelf in her apartment. He wouldn’t have bugged that; she rarely wore hats.

  Wait—the suitcase. She only owned two and had taken the front one from the closet. KJ felt every inch of this case. And found it in the front pocket. How to best handle things? Keep it and use it to send him off course. Or destroy it the way she wanted to destroy him. KJ laid the bug on the bathroom sink and pounded the life out of it. She tossed the tangle of pieces into the trash.

  While doing all the searching KJ had had an idea. She showered and phoned down for room service, then from the bathroom so Brett wouldn’t have any chance of hearing, made a call to a computer man she knew. Raven Disnard blew all people’s impressions of a computer geek out of the water. He was mega-fine. Looked like a young Sean Connery except with more polished features. He was just twenty but taught computer science at a nearby university.

  Raven answered on the first ring. “Good morning to the lovely KJ Valentine. To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

  She explained the situation.

  “I wondered if your company was the insurer. It seemed too big for any of the others. What is it you need?”

  “I don’t really know. I’m at my wits end. For some reason, I’m their biggest suspect.”

  Raven laughed. “You do see their dilemma, don’t you?”

  “I do. But I’m lost as to how to handle it. I can’t sit back and let them put me in jail. I’ve sent investigators to the Midwest but I want to do something here in New Hampshire. I wondered if you had some ideas.”

  “Possibly. Let me do a little research. Can you meet me in two hours?” They arranged a place to get together on the campus.

  She passed time by calling Ryan. He answered saying they were on the flight to Buffalo.

  “Why did Westen have to go to the police station?” she asked.

  “Someone broke into their room last night. They had to make out a report.”

  “Why would somebody do that? Did they turn up some information they didn’t tell me about?”

  “No. While talking to the drivers, Smith pissed off one of their sons. He came to, er, exact retribution.”

  “Did he hurt anyone?”

  Ryan laughed. “Smith beat the snot out of him.”

  She sure could’ve used Smith’s help at three this morning. “What are they planning for when they get to in Buffalo?”

  “Not sure. They’ve had their heads huddled together talking about it. I’m two rows back so I can’t hear what they’re saying.”

  “You’ve probably been chatting up the cute girl next to you.”

  “How’d you guess? I’ll keep you posted. Gotta go, we’re about to land and I have to get her number.”

  KJ finished dressing, tucked her hair into one of the new hats and went down to meet the taxi for the ride to the university.

  Raven hadn’t changed a bit from when she’d seen him last two years ago. He wore the usual chinos, loafers and collared T-shirt. His hair was short on the sides and long on top. A pesky lock continually dropped onto his forehead giving him the look of a dashing preppy who’d give you the shirt off his back—which he had done once when KJ got caught in a freak rainstorm.

  “Good morning.” He planted a kiss on her temple and slid into the booth across from her. “Thanks for the coffee.” He took a quick sip. “I have a class in a few minutes so we’ll have to do away with preliminaries. I have good news and bad news. I might have found the painting. That is, if you don’t believe all the rumors that are trending on Twitter.”

  “Rumors?”

  “Yes. That you’ve got it.”

  “That’s old news, I guess. Where is my painting?”

  “I found references to it being on the way to a collector in California.”

  She pulled off the hat and shook her hair loose. It cascaded down her back. “In a sense, I guess that’s good news because it means the painting is still in the US.” She made a mental list of the art collectors she knew on the west coast. “Any names mentioned?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t had much time to search.”

  “You think you’ll be able to find out?”

  “I hope so.” He patted her hand. “I really gotta go. Oh yeah, there’s one more thing. Somebody—I wasn’t able to find out their identity on such short notice—is spearheading a drive to get you arrested.” He stood up. “I’m sorry. I have to run. If there’s anything else I can do…”

  “Thanks, Raven. I owe you.”

  “You do at that. Be careful. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  KJ left the building in shock. Arrested? How had things gotten that far out of hand? If whoever was pushing for her arrest succeeded, that lady Sergeant Bartowski would have to come for her. KJ was pretty sure she’d told her which hotel she was in. The urge to call Theo hit her. Maybe wasn’t the best idea, but before it could disappear, she dialed his number—the one he’d called from the other night. It rang five times. His voice came on saying he was unavailable. She left a message trying not to sound as frustrated as she felt.

  KJ went back to the hotel, packed, slapped on a new disguise and left the room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  First thing Thursday morning, Smith and Westen drove to the police station to fill out the reports on the attack by Devon Blake. They were told they would only have to return for the trial if hotel personnel fizzled out as witnesses. Smith breathed out her relief saying she’d be glad to leave this place but Westen had a sneaking thought that they’d be back here before too many days passed.

  After each wrote their reports in detail, they walked a corridor three abreast to find a detective who’d been assigned to KJ’s case. Unfortunately, they were reluctant to talk to civilians even though Smith offered to have KJ confirm their credentials, meager as they were.

  Westen was certain this was only an excuse. The real reason they didn’t want to talk was they hadn’t done beans for an investigation. Since the painting hadn’t gone missing until the Buffalo to New Hampshire trip, they weren’t ready to assume anything, and perhaps rightly so, in the way of responsibility.

  “Well, that was a bust,” Smith said on the way out to a blue SUV, the latest in their convoy of rental vehicles. Westen would’ve liked to see the face of the rental agent each time Ryan showed up asking for a new car. She wondered what he kept using for excuses.

  “Where are we headed to now, ladies?” Ryan asked.

  “Wayne Trucking. It’s across town from Starfire,” Smith said.

  “Keep your eyes peeled for a tail.”

  ****

  The yard at Wayne Trucking looked, sounded, and smelled much like that at Starfire except the logos on buildings and trucks were radically different. Westen wondered what the new name for Starfire would be if the t
akeover went through.

  Westen stepped into the office of Wayne Trucking, squinting at the change in lighting. She approached a woman seated at a wide desk with a phone clutched between her ear and shoulder. She must have been on hold; frustration was causing her to tear a paper napkin to shreds on the desk blotter.

  “May I see Mr. Manager, please?” Westen asked.

  “May I inquire the reason?”

  Duh, if I wanted to say, I would’ve already. How much to divulge? “It’s a long story related to the theft of that Picasso in New Hampshire the other day.”

  “How is Mr. Manager related—Hello? Yes, I’m waiting to speak to Mr. Garceau,” she said into the phone. “Wayne Trucking calling to say Mr. Manager is leaving here momentarily, heading to your office. I’m just letting you know he’s going to be a few—” Giant sigh. “Yes, I’ll hold.”

  Westen had heard all she needed. She swung around and raced from the office. How to know which car was Manager’s? It was probably expensive. Only one car fit that description—a metallic gray Audi. A man was in the driver’s seat combing his hair. Finished, he leaned sideways to tuck the comb in a back pocket, tilted the mirror into place and—Westen raced up to the driver side window and knocked. The man jumped, but lowered the window. “Yes?”

  “Are you Lyle Manager?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “You don’t know me per se, but I’m here about Andrea Elliott and your possible takeover of her company.”

  The car, which had been drifting backward centimeters at a time, stopped. He put the vehicle in Park then got out as Smith appeared at Westen’s side. “I’m surprised she told you. She made me promise to keep this quiet.”

  “She didn’t tell us. One of her employees did.”

  “How the f—”

  Westen lifted both hands, palms up.

  “If you’re here to accuse me of letting the cat out of the bag you can just go to hell. Neither I nor my attorneys told a soul—we don’t work that way. This isn’t my first takeover bid—”

  “So we’ve heard,” Smith said.

  He gazed at her as if wondering what rock she’d come from under. “Not an iota of news leaked prior to them. And nothing leaked from us this time either.”

  “How much is the buyout?” Westen asked, mostly to change the subject.

  “Wait a minute! Who are you anyway? Somebody send you to get information so you can counter-bid?”

  What made him think they weren’t doing this on their own? Didn’t they look capable of executing a takeover? “Can we go someplace so my friend and I can explain who we are?”

  “You’re not here about the takeover?”

  “Only indirectly.”

  He checked his watch. “I am real short on time. Let’s go over here.” He led them to a picnic table, one of a half-dozen under some elm trees, probably there for employee smoke/coffee breaks. He wore a three-piece suit that had to have been tailored to his physique, that of a person who spent most of his time at a desk—a little paunch around the middle and thickening thighs. He walked with a smooth grace, in spite of his weight.

  Once they were seated, Westen introduced herself and Smith, and explained why they were in Chicago. “You probably heard about it on the news.”

  He nodded hard. Even so, not a strand of the professionally styled hair wiggled out of place. “I did. So, you think Andrea has something to do with its disappearance?”

  “We didn’t until we heard about your takeover. Do you mind telling us when this all began?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Three months next Thursday. Next week it all becomes official.” As if they couldn’t do the math, he added, “She has one week to come up with the cash.” He shrugged. “I doubt it’s going to happen.”

  Westen guessed he was right. Last night, when they’d confronted Andrea, she said she’d get the money. She kept pronouncing that there’d be no takeover.

  “Her lawyer has called three times for extensions,” he continued.

  “Which you keep turning down.”

  “Right. A deadline is a deadline.”

  “I bet you never asked for an extension in your business,” Smith snapped.

  “He might be waiting till the last minute,” Westen said quickly to avoid a blow-up between the two.

  “What makes you think that? Did you hear something?” His bright blue eyes flashed.

  “Nooo.”

  “Yes you did. You made a face when you said that.”

  “I don’t know anything at all. Last night when I talked to Andrea, she insisted it wasn’t happening.”

  The blue-gray eyes narrowed. Two lines appeared between his eyes. Apparently he’d thought the takeover was in the bag. Westen suppressed a grin at being able to deflate his bubble a little, and rose from the table. “How well do you know Ms. Elliott?” she asked.

  “Only socially. We’ve attended a few city functions together. I know what you’re about to ask, and no, I wouldn’t suspect her of doing something like stealing that painting.”

  They thanked Mr. Manager and left.

  Next Ryan drove them to an address they’d gotten off the internet. Andrew Andy Elliott—Westen assumed Andrea was a firstborn child and the parents had hopes of a son—lived in Winnetka, a half hour north of the city. The elegant fieldstone-faced home had frontage on Lake Michigan. The grand entrance had been fitted with a wheelchair ramp, which told Westen that Andrea’s father was probably in it for good.

  Smith hit the button for the doorbell. Chimes echoed inside the house. The door was opened by a gorgeous woman—the spitting image of Andrea, maybe a couple of inches shorter but otherwise that same naturally curly brunette hair and green eyes that seemed to carry the weight of the world in them.

  “My name is Westen Hughes. This is Phoebe Smith. I am an investigator for NH Property and Casualty Insurance.” The woman flashed a glance behind them to where Ryan waited in the car. “That’s our driver.” It felt good to say that even though they weren’t ensconced in a silver limousine like the one in the driveway.

  “My name is Sandra Elliott. I’m Andrew’s wife.” She backed a few steps, pulling the door open as she did. She wore a paisley patterned caftan with pink soft-soled slippers. “Come in. My husband is in the solarium.”

  Westen followed her through the living room decorated with what had to be custom-made furniture. Smith flashed her a raised-eyebrow look as they passed out a side door into the largest sunroom she’d ever seen. Views of the lake poured through two sides.

  Sandra Elliott called to a man in a wheelchair facing out toward the water. He spun around; a wide welcoming smile broke on his face. Westen wondered if he’d feel that way after they relayed the reason for their visit. She let Smith handle the introductions.

  “As you probably know, I am Andrew Elliott. Call me Andy.”

  “That’s what your daughter said to call her also.”

  He smiled. “She always was my little tomboy. From as early as I can recall, she wanted to be a truck driver.”

  “Could I get you ladies some coffee or tea?” The way Mrs. Elliott posed the question, it was almost an interruption. It gave Westen the idea that Andrea’s dad had wanted the truck driver more than either the mother or daughter.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Westen said. Smith did likewise, though it seemed to pain her. “We won’t keep you long.”

  “It’s no bother,” Andy said. “Sit down, sit down.”

  Andy Elliott, the father, was nothing like Westen had expected—someone who appeared infirmed and well, sad. This man had the skin tone and manner of a virile and active person.

  As they settled on a rattan loveseat, he wheeled closer. “Now tell me what brings you to our home. I assume Andy sent you?”

  “No sir.” As with Lyle Manager, Westen explained whom they worked for and what they were doing in Chicago. “I’m not sure how to say this. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea but well, when we heard about the takeover bid for Starfire Trucking
, we couldn’t help…er, we had to ask…”

  The chair shot so close to Westen’s knees, she leaped back to avoid a direct hit. She waited for the denial that his daughter could, or would, be involved in something as heinous as the theft of the Picasso.

  But what he said was, “What takeover?”

  Uh-oh. Clearly his daughter had filled them full of manure. Westen did her best to explain what they’d heard about Wayne Trucking’s desire for power.

  He nodded several times slowly, lost in thought. “I’d heard they’d bought out Sunderson’s but figured Sunderson was going under and they’d worked out a deal. I had no idea—” Then he seemed to realize something. “Did Andy tell you all this? How she planned to get out of the mess?”

  “No sir. We heard about the takeover from a third party. As far as her keeping the company…” Westen was at a crossroad here. She didn’t know whether it was better to divulge what Andrea had said about Dad bailing her out or let things hang. Smith solved the dilemma for her.

  “She said you offered to help.”

  “Help?”

  “Financially.”

  He whirled the chair back a yard or so. Westen took it as a signal their meeting was over. She also assumed he’d be on the phone to his daughter before the door hit them in the butt-sides.

  Smith and Westen rose in unison. Mrs. Elliott, who’d remained surreptitiously in the doorway, came forward to escort them outdoors.

  Ryan turned the SUV behind the limo, spun the tires and threw crushed oyster shells on it as they shot down the driveway.

  “So,” Smith said, “if our Andy junior is a liar about Andy senior, might that also make her a thief?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Thursday night, Westen stood in front of the Buffalo/Niagara terminal, wind whipping hair into her face. How they could call Chicago the Windy City, she couldn’t imagine. Buffalo was far worse than anything there.

  She and Smith climbed into the rented SUV. Ryan raced around to slam their meager luggage—not weighed down by underwear—in the back. Less than twenty seconds later, he sped along the airport access way and up the ramp toward the highway.