On the Hook Page 15

  “What if Ryan isn’t who he seems to be?” she asked Smith.

  Smith turned her attention from yet another cold case program. “You still on that kick?”

  “I will be until you give it serious thought. He could be one of two things. Worst case scenario—he’s one of the thieves making sure we don’t get onto him.”

  “Makes no sense,” Westen said. “The painting’s got to be out of the country by now.”

  “If I’d taken it, I wouldn’t chance moving it till the heat died down. I’d be keeping a close eye on the cops. And the investigators.”

  Westen ran a brush through her hair. The possibility existed that Smith was right. “That’s because you’re a worrywart.”

  Smith stabbed a finger in Westen’s direction. “Don’t tell me what that means. A normal person would get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “All right, what about my second idea?”

  “Frankly, I stopped thinking about it this morning so you’ll have to refresh my memory.”

  “What if KJ put him there to keep an eye on what we’re doing? If we get close to finding the painting he can tell her, and she can find it and collect the insurance money. Then all we’ll have is the ten thousand she sent us here with.”

  Smith sat up on the bed and swung her feet to the floor. “I’ll tell you what. If that’s what’s going on, it won’t matter because I’ll make both of them eat my new snake.”

  “Speaking of Jeanette, who’s taking care of your critters?”

  “A neighbor.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Man.”

  “Woo woo!”

  “There’s no woo woo or anything else. And I’ll hurt you bad if you give me woo woo for anything ever again.”

  “Gonna make me eat your snake?”

  “Maybe.”

  “No woo woo, huh? Feel bad for you.”

  “So what? You aren’t getting any either.”

  “My husband died. That sort of lessens the woo woo options. What’s your excuse?”

  Smith plumped all four pillows and lay down on the bed. It looked like she’d gone back to the television show. Even so, it wasn’t long before she said, “Sooo. Who do you think took the painting?”

  “I don’t think it was Doctor Batchelder, if that’s why you’re asking. I do think he acted guilty, but I think the guilt was related to the painting being stolen, period, not because he did it. The poor man actually slept in the hallway to protect it! If he had a plan to take the Picasso he wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble. I’m really leaning toward KJ. She had the best opportunity. She had the most time to plan it. And even though she’s on the cop’s suspect list, there’s little chance they’ll work hard trying to pin it on her because basically she’s a goodie-two-shoes. She’s been involved in dozens of high-end, high-profile cases and nothing’s ever happened.”

  “Even so, should we do a little research into her background?”

  “We talked about this at the beginning. Let’s let the big guys do this. For now. If we get involved in this lifestyle on a more permanent basis, let’s find a cop we can get in good with. You know, somebody who’ll help us out with information and we can help him get the kudos when the cases are solved. It’ll be your basic you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours situation.”

  “Yes, and we’re also gonna buy a bunch of surveillance equipment and tools.” Smith went back to watching the program. A few minutes later, while Westen was busy dissecting a possible case against KJ, Smith said, “So, what does that mean anyway?”

  Westen was confused. The last thing she’d been talking about was the thing about back scratching. No way she wanted to know about that.

  “Yes,” Smith said. “I was asking about the scratching.”

  “Oookay. It’s basically a literal translation of the Latin quid pro quo.”

  “That’s it? No momentous long-winded reply?”

  “I’m never long-winded.”

  Smith gave a snort.

  “So, you’ve been thinking about us doing more investigating?”

  Smith shrugged. “Yeah. Haven’t you?”

  “Honestly, no. I’m so out of my element here. Scared most of the time…”

  “You don’t show it. I got the idea you had nerves of steel.”

  “I guess that’s good, right?”

  “Right. ’Cuz that means the bad guys think so too.” Smith got up from the bed and snatched the menu from the table. “What do you want to eat? And should we invite Ryan?”

  Westen didn’t feel like having company, but if Ryan had anything to do with the theft, it could be beneficial to spend more time with him.

  “If he’s not a good guy, maybe he’ll let something slip,” Smith said.

  “Exactly what I was thinking. Sure. Give him a buzz. Besides, I’d like to hear a little more about him letting himself into our room. I don’t like that one bit.”

  “Totally agree. Girl, there’s a lot of differences between us, but usually we’re on the same basic wavelength. I think we’d make a great team.”

  While Smith dialed Ryan’s room, Westen went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth. Were they really on the same wavelength? As Smith said, in spite of their vast differences, they got on fairly well together. Maybe a long-term relationship would be good. The idea made her laugh. Here they were, both considering a future when they might not have one at all.

  When she got out of the bathroom, Smith was hanging up the phone. “Talk about woo woo. What’s with the primping?”

  “I’ll have you know, I primp even if I’m working in my garden.”

  “To each his own.”

  “What did you order?”

  “Ryan said he’d order for us.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  Smith shrugged. “I decided to trust him. Till we have reason not to.”

  Westen sagged into one of the chairs near the table wishing for another of those mojitos.

  “You gotta let go a little,” Smith said, which made Westen laugh. “What’s the matter?”

  “If you knew what I’d just been thinking, you’d laugh too.” Westen didn’t have to elaborate because Ryan knocked on the door. They knew it was him because he shouted his name at the same time.

  Smith opened the door. He moved inside carrying a large brown paper bag, which he set on the dresser blocking the view of the evening news. He drew out several bottles of beer and set them beside the bag. The last to show itself was a bottle with a square black cover. Ryan found a plastic cup in the bathroom, sloshed a bit into the glass and handed it to Westen. She took the cup but before drinking she read the bottle’s label—Disaronno.

  “It’s made from sugar and fruit,” he told her.

  “Sounds lethal,” Smith joked, but Westen knew she was remembering the previous evening.

  The parts Westen could remember just about made her sick.

  A pair of feet showed beneath the door. Almost right away came a knock. Ryan went to answer it. Silhouetted in the hall light was a man. Well, the outline looked like a man, but when he greeted Ryan, Westen could’ve sworn the voice was a woman’s. He was taller than Ryan by several inches and probably outweighed him by twenty pounds. The men shook hands.

  The stranger stepped into the light. He had hair so blond it was almost white. With those bright blue eyes he looked like a poster boy in ads for surfing lessons. He gave the impression of perfection—till he spoke; his voice was so high-pitched it made Smith snicker under her breath. He couldn’t have missed the sound, though he showed no sign of hearing. Probably used to it.

  Nobody invited the man to sit down. Ryan introduced everyone to Young Fredericks. “I met Young the other day back in Chicago. We happened to be drinking at the same bar.”

  “You were out drinking when you were supposed to be protecting us?” Smith said.

  “A guy has to eat.”

  “In a bar?”

  “They served food.”

  “Go
od food,” interjected Young.

  This time Smith snickered out loud. “Young is an unusual name.”

  “I’m a twin—the youngest. My real name’s John.”

  “I like Young better,” Westen said.

  “Did they call your brother Old?” Smith asked.

  “They called him Jimmy.” This was said without inflection, as though he totally missed Smith’s attempt at humor. And it ended the line of questioning related to names.

  “What are you doing in Buffalo?” Westen asked.

  “Myron Gold, the other guard who rode with me on the Picasso job, and I are leaving on another job in the morning. Transporting musical equipment for the heavy metal band Stone Sour.”

  “Oh man!” said Smith, leaping off the bed. “Did you meet them? What are they like? I went to see them last spring.”

  Young shook his head. “Only met the stage manager. He helped us load. Everything had to go in a certain way.”

  Which put an end to another line of conversation.

  “What can you tell us about the night of the theft?” Westen asked.

  “Not a single thing. As you know, Myron and I were in the lead car. He was driving so it was sort of understood I’d keep an eye on the truck. I promise you, not a single unusual thing happened. We drove and we stopped. That’s it.”

  “Where did you stop?” Smith asked, hope flooding her voice.

  “At the museum.”

  “That’s it?” Westen asked.

  “Yup. Except for a slow-down behind that accident I’m sure you’ve heard about.”

  Which ended a third topic of conversation. Westen groped for a fourth. “Do you know any of the men who drove the truck?”

  “Know Brad Kerrington. We’ve done several jobs with him.”

  “You made a face,” Smith said. “Don’t you like him?”

  Young tipped his head down, giving the idea he’d rather be someplace else.

  “Come on, spit it out,” Smith said.

  Ryan laughed. “I told you she was direct.”

  “Nice enough guy. He’s okay, I guess.”

  “Stop avoiding the question.” This time Smith’s tone brooked no argument.

  He heaved a long sigh. “It’s probably nothing more than my eyes playing tricks on me. We were waiting to load the truck at the museum here in Buffalo. The curator was late getting there that morning. There’s a desk in the corner. Mostly it’s just used for bills of lading, things like that, so we don’t have to go all the way into the museum when we drop something off. Anyway, Kerrington—he drove the leg from Chicago to Buffalo—was sitting there filling out his logbook. When I looked the first time, there was a small silver lynx on the corner of the desk.” Young spread his thumb and index finger to indicate a creature about two inches tall. “Next time I looked, the lynx was gone. He was the only one there. Like I said, I could be mistaken.”

  It didn’t sound like it. “Was this part of a shipment?”

  Young shook his head. “It was always there. Doctor Batchelder—he’s the one who recommended me and Myron to Ms. Valentine. Anyhow, he called it his lucky charm.”

  Unable to process what a possible stolen lynx might mean, Westen stored the information. “What do you think of the doctor?” Her question received a questioning lift to the eyebrows from Smith.

  “We get along famously.”

  There was no twitch to his brow as there had been when asked about Brad Kerrington, so Westen believed him. She glanced from Smith to Young and back again. No further questions popped out, so Westen thanked him for coming.

  As he left, the waiter arrived with the room service tray, to which Smith gave her full attention. Smith snatched up the bacon cheddar burger. Ryan tipped the waiter. All three were silent as he left the room.

  “I am definitely surprised to hear that about Brad Kerrington,” Westen said.

  “I’m not.” Smith took her plate to the table. She returned for a beer and dropped into a chair. “Remember what KJ said about him.”

  Westen gathered her plate before Smith got the idea to abscond with it. Not that her partner would want a shrimp salad but Westen wasn’t taking any chances. Since there were only two chairs, she sat on the edge of the bed.

  “What did KJ say about Kerrington?” Ryan settled at the table with his dinner, a full pound hamburger, by the looks of it. “Westen, you sure you don’t want to sit here?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “KJ said he had a bad aura,” Smith said.

  Westen and Ryan laughed.

  “KJ has a strange way about her, but she’s been right on in her judgments about people.”

  Ryan talked around a bite of his sandwich, “I gotta say, I was impressed with you two. You asked just the right questions and didn’t take any crap from him.”

  Smith set the burger on the plate and wiped the juices from her face and hands with a white napkin. “Why are you surprised?”

  “KJ said you were brand new at the investigating business. She—” He stopped to swallow and take a drink of his beer. “She kept texting me questions to make sure you asked people.”

  “You never told us anything to say,” Smith said.

  He shook his head. “I got sick of the constant texts. Tell them this. Make sure they do that. Besides, when I saw how you handled the Blake kid I knew you didn’t need her leading you by the nose.” He poked Westen in the leg making her drop a shrimp on the carpet. “You found yourself one hell of a weapon.”

  “I was scared silly I’d have to use it.”

  “You did good.” He poked her again. “You two are okay. Naturals at this business. Don’t let Kendra Jean tell you any different.”

  “Speaking of Kendra Jean,” Westen said. “Does anyone think it’s odd we haven’t heard from her in several hours?”

  “Her not hassling us is a good thing—don’t fret over it,” Smith said.

  “I guess you’re right. Don’t look a gift non-phone-call in the mouth,” Ryan said.

  “I guess there’s a more pressing issue than Miss KJ right now,” Westen said.

  Smith swallowed a mouthful of french fry. “Doctor Batchelder claimed he slept outside the room where they housed the crate but when the guys went looking for him in the morning, he was nowhere to be found.”

  “Maybe he went to the bathroom, or out for a cup of coffee,” Ryan suggested.

  “Under the circumstances, I can’t picture him doing anything that’d take him from that doorway.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Smith said.

  Westen located his number and called. He answered with a jovial “good morning.” She identified herself and asked the question.

  “I had a call from Ernest Falwell,” he said. “Since he was checking on the safe arrival of the painting, I only expected to be gone a minute. I didn’t figure anyone could find a key, get into the room, and do any damage in that short of a time. Especially since everyone thought I was right there in front of the door.”

  Westen thanked him and hung up, feeling better about Doctor Batchelder, but not about Kendra Jean. “Who is Ernest Falwell?”

  “I know the answer to this,” Ryan said. “KJ mentions him in every other sentence. He’s an entrepreneur, a self-made millionaire who dabbles in the arts. I’m pretty sure he had something to do with the painting being okayed for the trip to New Hampshire.”

  “Wonder why KJ never mentioned him to us,” Smith said.

  “We’ll find out tomorrow.”

  Something had to have happened to stop KJ’s phone calls. She wasn’t the type to sit back and let things ride. “I’m calling her.”

  KJ’s home phone rang twice. Hearing the click of the receiver being lifted, Westen let herself relax.

  A male voice said, “Hello.”

  Westen asked to speak to KJ.

  The voice said softly, “This is her fiancé. She’s asleep, could I take a message?”

  “This is West
en Hughes.”

  “Oh yes, she told me she’d sent you and Ms. Smith to Chicago. Is everything all right? Did you arrive safely?”

  Westen considered leaving a message. Clearly KJ trusted him enough to talk about the case. “Yes, everything’s fine. I just wanted to tell her that—” Wait a second, he wanted to know if she arrived all right in Chicago? That was two days ago. Maybe it was best if she said nothing. “Just tell her I called, please.”

  “Are you sure there’s no message? I am in her confidence, you know.”

  “No message, thanks.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The following morning, KJ let herself get swept along in a conference crowd in the hotel lobby. Nice right now to be part of a group, not to be singled out even though she felt secure with her latest disguise. She didn’t officially check out of the room. Best not to be noticed. KJ kept her head down as she passed the desk, just in case, but a familiar voice had her ducking behind a pillar and peeking out, shocked to see a pair of all-too-familiar people.

  Sergeant Charlene Bartowski turned at the sound of Brett’s voice. There he stood, smiling from ear to ear. What on earth was he doing here? KJ’s question was quickly answered when the sergeant asked the same question.

  “I saw you come in and thought I’d ask how the Picasso case was going.”

  “What do you know about it?” the sergeant asked.

  “Everything, I think. As you probably know, Kendra Jean and I are engaged. She tells me everything.”

  The sergeant tilted her head and looked up through a curtain of mousy brown curls. KJ strained to hear over the crowd’s hum of voices discussing the latest speaker. “You two are getting married, huh? Then tell me why she’s staying at this hotel.”

  The information clearly surprised Brett. He must’ve thought the officer was here on other business. “We uh…had a bit of a falling out. It’s over though. We had a long talk last night. As a matter of fact, we were up until nearly dawn.” He shot her a grin that insinuated they had been doing more than talking. It was all KJ could do not to leap from behind the freshly painted white pillar and shake the truth out of him.