On the Hook Read online

  Again Westen expressed unspoken trust in Phoebe Smith by agreeing. Was there a reason she didn’t want Westen at her house? Maybe she’d gotten attached to the little hybrid. If so, it was a contradiction of the impression Westen had formed of her.

  “What are you laughing at?” Smith said.

  “Nothing.”

  Soon, she stood at her mailbox waving good-bye to her new hybrid, hopefully not for the last time. Part of her felt bad not trusting Smith. Just because her new partner was outspoken and a little crude didn’t mean she was dishonest. Did it?

  Westen was ready in far less than an hour. She’d called the newspaper and post office and had the services put a hold until further notice, something she hadn’t been able to do when KJ hijacked her. Ben’s black wheeled-suitcase sat near the door alongside a small cooler of drinks and snacks. She had no idea when they’d be back.

  An hour passed.

  And then another.

  It dawned on her that Smith carried most of the ten thousand given to them by KJ. If she didn’t come back, KJ would probably expect Westen to return it. Though she felt more sick than hungry, she made a peanut butter sandwich and stood in the living room window eating it. The peanut butter made her thirsty so she went to the kitchen for a drink. That’s when somebody knocked on the back door.

  Smith stood there grinning from one ear to the other. “I’m back. Sorry I’m late. I stopped to get some groceries. I figured it would be cheaper than eating on the road. As it is, we’ll probably have to stay in a motel at least one night. Westen finished her water and put the glass in the dishwasher. “Let’s get going.”

  Smith picked up the bags by the door. Westen locked the door and followed her out of the breezeway to the hatchback where they stowed the luggage. She took the cooler up front.

  “Where to first?” Smith handed her the keys.

  “Route 3A. There’s a truck stop where we can get the map.”

  ****

  The truck stop teemed with trucks of all sizes and colors. She slowed in the main parking lot.

  “I’m not complaining but couldn’t you have gotten a little closer to the building?”

  Westen laughed. “Could have but I want to find a truck similar to the one KJ’s guys used. I have an idea.” She cruised around the lot, back and forth in the rows of trucks parked or fueling up. After a minute, she stopped beside a tractor with something that looked like a camper attached. Behind the rig was a trailer—it was long, probably fifty feet or so, but that didn’t matter.

  She and Smith got out. The driver didn’t seem to be around. The sleeper part extended about ten or twelve feet behind the truck. Behind that was the hitch. Westen put her foot up, grasped the ladder and hauled herself onto the hitch. From here she could easily open the trailer’s hatch door. Down on the ground, Smith cleared her throat.

  “I know how you feel,” Westen said, “the exhaust is getting to me too.”

  Smith made a louder sound. And then another. Westen gripped the ladder with one hand and peered over her shoulder.

  An enormous bearded man had a rifle jammed in Smith’s ribs.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  KJ moped all the way back to her cell. Who else to call? The only people she knew here in Chicago—Andrea Elliott, Charles Fenwick, the guards, the truckers—wouldn’t be likely to help out. Fewer people in New Hampshire would drop what they were doing and help an accused criminal.

  What a sad sight her life was.

  If she died, that would be even sadder; the only ones who’d be at the funeral were her parents and brothers. Which meant she should concentrate on finding some good friends or get married and provide herself a family. The pair of thoughts made her laugh out loud. There were no such things as real friends. Everyone in this world was only out for themselves. The idea of a family was equally as ludicrous. Children were dirty and noisy and needy.

  Maybe she could call the truckers. They might help; they were as much suspects as she was, so shouldn’t have so many qualms about being seen with her. Next time the officer came in, she’d ask for her cell phone; it had all the contact numbers.

  She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes, waiting for them to bring lunch.

  “Miss Valentine.”

  KJ opened her eyes. A male officer stood inside the cell door. “It’s time for you to go.”

  She brushed a wisp of hair from her face and sat up straight. “Go?” Like, home?

  “New Hampshire.”

  Oh. She hoped she would be traveling with somebody who had more than a two-word vocabulary.

  It turned out to be someone with way more than two-word sentences. This person’s vocabulary included swear words, verbal accusations, and the occasional threat. Sergeant Charlene Bartowski. Why did they have to send her?

  Okay, she told herself, make the best of this. Just get back home and find an attorney who could get her out of this mess.

  The sergeant signed KJ out of the facility. In the parking lot, she opened the passenger door of a huge rented Yukon, put out a hand to help KJ, still in the handcuffs, get inside. The sergeant reached over to pull the seatbelt across. She smelled like Ivory soap. KJ didn’t want to think what she herself smelled like being in the jail for twenty-four hours.

  “Could we stop by my hotel so I can get my luggage?” KJ asked.

  “Sure. And if you promise to behave, I’ll take the handcuffs off.”

  For which KJ was grateful.

  Two hours later they were on the plane and winging toward home. During the hour-long stopover in Philly the sergeant bought her a coffee and hamburger. After the initial awkward talk about her innocence and multiple questions to the sergeant about the identity of her accuser, they lapsed into general conversation, during which KJ realized there was more going on inside Sergeant Bartowski than she’d credited. They actually had some things in common, like a love of classical music, firearms, and a sincere desire to visit Australia. The sergeant seemed surprised to learn KJ was a superior marksman.

  Another hour and a half and she finally set her feet on New Hampshire soil. Even though her trials were far from over, she couldn’t suppress the sigh of relief. The proof that she’d been plastered all over the media came at the airport when a clowder—take that bit of trivia, Westen Hughes—of reporters met the car. How had they found out what time she’d be coming? Brett, or maybe Limp Cliff must have told them.

  Cops ganged around her as if she might try to escape. Man, if she hadn’t decked the sergeant and run off when it was just the two of them, she wasn’t about to try and get away from a half-dozen burly men. Idiots.

  Or maybe it gave them a rush to be seen bringing in a big-time criminal. The thought nearly made her burst into tears. But no, Kendra Jean Valentine would not cry. She tolerated the fingerprinting—as if the one they did in Chicago wasn’t good enough. She suffered through a photo shoot—turn left, turn right, face front. Grimace for the camera.

  Finally she was taken to a cell. She had no roomie. Can’t put that hardened criminal in with anyone. Heavens no.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Smith’s eyes went as round as soccer balls.

  “Wait, don’t shoot.” Westen climbed from the ladder, trying not to make any unexpected moves. “I can explain.”

  “That I’d like to hear, ma’am,” he said in with a sharp southern drawl.

  “We’re insurance investigators.”

  The man lowered the rifle and extended a hand to help her down from the hitch. Once her feet were on solid earth, he raised the gun again.

  At least his finger wasn’t on the trigger. Westen felt a bit bolder. She waved a hand. “It’s nothing to do with you.” She gave a general explanation of the theft, then added, “I got this idea how the painting could’ve been—”

  “Painting? This here about that fancy Picasso by some famous guy?”

  “Yes. You see, we had this idea where somebody could climb up there, maybe at a stop light, get into the trailer,
take the painting out of the frame, roll it up, and stash it in his shirt, then climb back out at the next traffic light.”

  While she spoke, Smith’s eyes had gone wide again. Probably because, as she’d done more than once, Westen had added to their previous scenario, hopefully arriving at something better, or more logical.

  The gun lowered again. The man nodded, so she stepped toward him. “Do you think it could work?”

  “I do, little lady, I do. If the truck’s stopped in traffic, all the creep has to do is climb aboard.”

  “It could be done without you noticing?”

  “I like to think I’m pretty observant, but yes, if I’m watching the lights, or pedestrians crossing in front of me, it’s possible I’d miss that. After today you can be sure I’ll watch more closely, though there ain’t much chance of me toting a valuable painting like that.” He slapped Smith on the back. The force toppled her a couple of steps forward. “Great powers of deduction you have. Both of you.” He opened the driver’s side door and stowed the rifle under the seat. He turned and shook hands with both women. “I wish you the best of luck finding that there painting.” He grasped the handle at the side of the truck and swung his huge frame up into the seat. He gave a gallant wave, slammed the door and started the truck. Another finger-wiggled out the window and he was on his way.

  Smith spoke for the first time. “I think I peed myself.”

  “Me too. Come on. Let’s go dry off and find ourselves one-a them there atlases.”

  They made their way into the building, past a small restaurant area, to the restrooms where both women fell back against the cold cinder block wall.

  “Man,” Smith said, “I really did think I pissed myself. That’s the closest I’ve ever been to that end of a gun. The closest I ever want to be.”

  “The trouble is, in this business, we might come upon it sometimes. People who’ve gone to the trouble to steal something of such value are usually willing to do what they can to protect it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about that new idea you had?”

  Westen gave a nervous laugh. “Because I didn’t think of it till I started talking. Come on, let’s find the map and a cup of coffee.”

  They went out and got seated at a window booth where they could see Westen’s car, dwarfed by the herd of huge vehicles. She wasn’t sure she liked sitting in the window. If somebody ran over her car...

  Okay, she wouldn’t think about it—at least that insurance policy was up to date.

  “Something else I realized,” Westen said after the waitress took their order for coffee and slices of apple pie. “I don’t think we have to go anywhere near Buffalo.”

  “Say again?”

  “I think the theft was pulled off right here in the city.”

  Smith unwrapped the silverware from the napkin and jabbed the butter knife in her direction. “Is this like when you had the feeling you’d been right near the painting back in Chicago?”

  “Gimme a break, will ya? This is the first time I’ve done this sort of thing.”

  “What, used your brain?”

  Which made them both laugh so hard that surrounding patrons laughed too. If they only knew the laughter was a release from being almost taken down by rifle blast. Smith opened the atlas of maps to the New Hampshire page and ran her index finger down till she got to Concord.

  “Something else I figured out,” Westen said. “I don’t think we need the map.”

  “We spent thirty-five bucks for this and now you say we don’t need it?”

  “KJ spent the money.”

  “Which makes me wonder why she hasn’t called to badger us lately.”

  “I have the feeling she’s busy with something else,” Westen said.

  “In Philly?”

  “Maybe the painting was found…” Westen’s own comment brought cold chills to her body.

  “And hasn’t bothered to tell us. That’d be just like her.”

  “Maybe one of us should give her a call.”

  “One of us meaning you,” Smith said. “I called last time.”

  She had a point. Westen took out the cell phone and punched the number one—preprogrammed by KJ herself—on speed dial. There was no answer. Where on earth was she? Should she try someone else? KJ’s fiancé would know, but Westen didn’t remember his full name to get the number from information. Maybe he would answer KJ’s home phone again. Westen tried there. No answer. She put the cell away. “I guess she’ll be in touch when she needs something.”

  “You can bet on that. So, tell me why we don’t need the map,” Smith said.

  “I’d bet money the painting was taken no more than three or four—six blocks at the most—from the museum.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Well, any closer and the thief might not have time to get out of the trailer. Further and they’re probably still on the highway, or at least in a spot where the truck is going too fast. I think all we have to do is trace the route they took from the highway, probably no more than two miles.”

  “Good thing we packed overnight bags.”

  Westen took out the phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Since KJ’s incommunicado, I thought I’d try one of the drivers.” She dialed Brad Kerrington. When he answered, she asked what route they’d taken into Concord. He didn’t have to think it over. “We took exit 14 off Route 93.”

  “Okay, good. Left off the exit, right?”

  “Right. Yes. Then a right toward the State House and it’s a straight shot to the museum.”

  “What time did you get here?”

  “A little after seven p.m.”

  “Gotcha. Thanks.”

  “Wait. What’ve you got? Did you find the painting?”

  “We think the painting might’ve been taken right near the museum.” She explained their idea. “If not here, then back in Buffalo before you got on the highway.”

  “You really think somebody could’ve got on the trailer without us seeing?” His voice sounded a bit accusatory, but more distressed because if this scenario played out, it meant he could’ve prevented the painting from going missing.

  “It’s one the only ideas that makes sense.”

  “Which means you have other ideas?”

  “Just one. Thanks for the info. I’ll be in touch.” After Westen hung up, she told Smith, “He sounded anxious.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure there’s mega-pressure on them. I mean, who’s going to hire them for high-end jobs if they can’t keep hold of one miserable painting?”

  “You got a point there.”

  “Remember, even if we figure out how this happened, it doesn’t mean we know who took it.”

  To keep from blurting out that she was 99% sure of the thief’s name, Westen put the last of the pie in her mouth, and spent an inordinate amount of time chewing and washing it down with the rest of the coffee. “Come on, let’s go while it’s still daylight. We’ll start at the museum and check all the stoplights to look for pieces of frame or the packing material.”

  Smith drove to the highway exit and made a u-turn. There was a set of lights before the N. Main Street intersection. She stopped there. It wasn’t really likely as a point of entry for the thief because it was so out in the open, but Westen wanted to check anyway.

  She and Smith climbed from the car. Westen pointed west. “The truck would’ve been going in this direction. Let’s check both sides of the street and sidewalk.”

  Each took a different side, dodging cars and pedestrians, ignoring irritated honking. They found nothing but scraps of paper, wads of gum, a crumpled beer can, and half a soaking wet reefer. The next intersection yielded the same poor results and more irritated drivers. So did the third set of lights. Westen was growing depressed. They were almost at the State House.

  Nothing at this place either.

  Was it possible her scenario was wrong?

  By the time they reached the fourth intersection—the se
cond to last before the museum—both women were dragging emotionally.

  “If it’s not here, I feel like it’s not anywhere,” Westen said.

  “How do you figure that? We just go back to—”

  “To where? The last place they would’ve had to slow down was probably coming through Vermont.

  “I felt so sure the thief got in at the first intersection off the highway. He needed time to open the crate, take out the painting, dislodge it from the wrappings, roll it up and stash it, probably in his shirt, heave out the pieces, then climb from the truck. KJ said it was about seven when they arrived at the museum, which means it was probably sometime after six when the guy got into the trailer. Traffic would’ve been heavy. Dusk would’ve been coming.”

  “I have a question. Why bother tossing out the frame? What should they care if we find it?”

  To that, Westen had no answer. They stood in the intersection—the very clean one.

  Smith planted her hands on her hips. “I was so sure your idea was right.”

  Her admission made Westen perk a little. Nice to be praised rather than berated even if it was said while pursuing a lost cause. “It’s getting dark. Let’s finish checking this last spot then get some dinner and regroup for tomorrow.”

  “I sure hope you’re not going to say we have to go to Buffalo. I hate Buffalo.”

  “You ever been to Buffalo?”

  “Well, no but…”

  Westen checked the nearest side of the street. She had to wait for twelve rush hour cars and trucks to pass. Everyone was in a hurry to get home. Nobody cared to move over a little for the woman who wanted to crouch near the sidewalk. More garbage. Why did people have to throw things out the window? Never in her life had she tossed more than an apple core, something that’d biodegrade in a few days. She found a tampon, unable to tell if was used or just filthy—gosh, what was she thinking? Time to go home and regroup, as Smith suggested.

  Smith’s shouted, “I found something!” had Westen weaving between honking and squealing traffic. One car came so close she brushed her hand over the red paint.

  Westen reached Smith, who had her backside facing traffic. She held something long and dark colored in her hands. It looked like a piece of the frame. Westen raced around front of her. Sure enough, Smith was holding a polished piece of wood with her fingertips. A bullet of elation shot through Westen. They had found the picture frame!