On the Hook Read online

  Probably too late to worry about prints, but they took caution anyway. They wove across the street and stowed the wood in the hatchback of the car on the flat-pile carpet. One end was beveled, part of a joint. The other end was crushed, as if driven over by a vehicle.

  They shut the hatch, returned to the shoulder and searched further. Since one end had been broken, they searched for another piece. The streets were filthy, so that meant a sweeper hadn’t scoffed it up. If one piece was there, the rest could be too. Or maybe the velvet bag. It might be harder to find that because wind could’ve taken it anywhere, even to a rooftop or to tangle in tree branches. The same with the bubble wrap. The frame was the most viable lead.

  They didn’t find any other pieces.

  “Should we take it to the police?” Westen asked.

  “Hell, no. Let’s make sure what we’ve got first. If we’re wrong we’ll take some flak.”

  Westen usually liked to keep things above board, out in the open, but Smith had a point. They didn’t want to damage their newly established relationship with the sergeant.

  Smith drove back to Westen’s house. While Westen carried jackets, purses and coolers, Smith carefully transferred the piece of frame from the car to the kitchen table. Westen lowered the adjustable chandelier so it shone close to the object.

  It was hard to guess its original size. In the broken state it measured approximately 18”. As noted, one end clearly had been beveled to fit a corner; the other was broken. Westen didn’t have much experience with woods, but the jointed spot was a light colored wood, maybe pine or maple. The wood had been stained a reddish color. “Do you have the picture KJ gave us?” Westen asked.

  Smith sipped from a can of beer she’d packed in the cooler, then went to the manila folder and returned with the photo. She laid it beside the piece of frame. And looked at Smith, who was already gazing her way. Smith said, “Damn” the same time Westen said, “I can’t believe, it’s nothing like it. They aren’t the same shape or color.”

  “Good thing we didn’t bring it to the sergeant.”

  “Let’s try not to get too depressed. Until we’re better at this job, this might happen a lot.”

  “How are we supposed to get better at it, that’s all I want to know? I’m out of an apartment by the end of the month. And I’m already out of a job.”

  “You and me both.” Westen wondered again if it wasn’t too late to grovel to Grady.

  “What’s on the agenda tomorrow? Are we going to Buffalo?”

  Westen shrugged. “I guess.” Right this moment, she didn’t care if she ever saw that stupid painting.

  “You really think it’s worth going?”

  “Frankly Smith, I don’t know what we should do. I’ll make some coffee, maybe it’ll help us think.”

  “It’s five o’clock, mind if I turn on the news?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I like to watch the news at least once a day—it reminds me my life isn’t as bad as I think.”

  Westen nearly chuckled. Maybe she should start watching the news too. “After that, we can decide what to do next. One thing that’s important is to visit the museum in Concord. I want the curator to walk us through the events of that evening.”

  Westen was bustling about the kitchen preparing coffees and a snack when Smith shouted from the living room. Westen ran, tripping on the braided throw rug in the doorway. Smith was pointing at the screen. From the floor, Westen gazed up at Kendra Jean being escorted into a disturbingly familiar police station.

  Chapter Thirty

  “What on earth…” Westen crawled toward the television. “KJ’s been arrested?”

  “That was a promo from Chicago. The story’s coming on after the commercial,” Smith said.

  “I wonder what happened.”

  “Somebody probably saw her for the self-centered—”

  “Phoebe Smith!”

  Smith shot Westen a wide grin and raised fist at the same time. “Call me that again I’ll clobber you.”

  “Sure you will.”

  Westen hurried through the coffee prep so she could watch the news.

  “I guess that explains why she didn’t answer her phone,” Smith called.

  Westen was in the living room seated on the loveseat beside Smith when the news came back on. Apparently they found evidence that KJ had stolen the painting. She was taken into custody by the Chicago police. The Picasso had not been located.

  “So, we’re still on the case,” Smith said.

  “Looks like it.”

  “Maybe we can go see her and talk her into telling us where it is. We’ll offer to split the reward with her.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Yeah.” Smith took a bite of the oatmeal cookie. “She wouldn’t tell me anyway. She might tell you…”

  “Do you have the phone on you?”

  “No, it’s in the kitchen.” She started up from the couch. “You gonna call and ask her where it is?” she called over her shoulder. She returned with the phone and two more cookies. “Who are you calling?”

  “Ryan. Maybe he knows more than us.”

  Ryan answered with, “I thought I’d be hearing from you two.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t think Kendra Jean’s got anyone else to call for help.”

  “She called you?”

  “Yeah. And when I got there she started nagging me for taking so long, I turned around and left.”

  “Good for you.” Westen whispered an aside to Smith about what happened.

  “Are you here in Chicago?” he asked.

  “Why would we be?” She put the phone on speaker.

  “Didn’t she call you to bail her out?”

  “No.” Thank goodness.

  “So, you don’t know what’s going on with her right now?” Smith asked.

  “No idea. I suppose I could be a good citizen and check. Maybe stewing in a cell for a while will bring her snootiness down a few notches.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Smith said.

  Ryan laughed. “I tend to agree with you.”

  “Are you going back to the police station?”

  “Yes. I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

  “Great, thanks. Bye for now.” Westen hit the End button. “So, what now?”

  “It’s too late to leave for Buffalo today.”

  “I agree. Let’s do some brainstorming and get on the road early.”

  “I’ll call for takeout,” Smith said. “What do you want?”

  They had a meat-lover’s and a vegetarian pizza delivered. They ate leaned over the coffee table drinking beer and fruit juice.

  An updated report about KJ at six o’clock provided no information about the painting itself but an anonymous tip had given details on KJ’s location. She was being extradited to New Hampshire sometime today.

  Westen stood to clear the pizza boxes. Smith brought the dishes and silverware and poured herself another beer. “I wonder who the snitch is.”

  “No idea.”

  “I think tomorrow, rather than heading for Buffalo, we should go to the museum,” Smith said.

  “Is that because you don’t want to drive that far, or you think we can get a clue there?”

  “Both. I think going to Buffalo is a wild goose chase. But I will go if we eliminate other options.”

  “Okay. Sounds like a plan. We’ll talk to the curator. What’s his name?” She read the notes KJ had provided. “Henderson McGee. Aged 45. KJ’s notes say he’s nice looking but really refined features. She thinks he might be gay. He lives with his father who has Alzheimer’s. In his teens and twenties he was in quite a lot of trouble with police.”

  “Anything that might indicate he’d steal paintings when he grew up?” Westen asked.

  Smith shuffled some of the papers. “Here’s an arrest report.” She read a minute then said, “No, it’s mostly drunk driving, and domestic abuse.”

  “Another domestic abuse? M
ust be a personality trait that runs in curators.”

  Smith laughed at something on the page. “I don’t think so. This domestic abuse was by his wife on him.”

  “You’re kidding. I don’t believe in men hitting women, but jeez, if a woman’s beating on a guy, I think he ought to haul off and put her in her place.”

  “Ha! I never woulda expected that to come from your mouth.”

  Westen changed the subject because she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear Smith’s views on abuse. “I want to have Mr. McGee run us through exactly what happened that night. What he did before KJ arrived. What they did after.”

  “I wonder if the police would let us look at the report that was filed.”

  “We should’ve asked the sergeant when we were there.”

  “Let’s stop there first thing.” Smith gave a sharp laugh. “I want to hear more about Kendra Jean, anyway.”

  “You think the sergeant’ll know?”

  “She’s the one assigned to the case, right?” Westen nodded. “So, yes, I think she’s the one to ask.”

  “I wonder who turned KJ in,” Westen said.

  Smith threw up both hands in a defensive motion. “Wasn’t me!”

  They dissolved in fits of laughter on the couch. Yes, Westen thought, maybe this relationship would work out.

  The cell phone rang, rattling across the coffee table. Smith viewed the caller ID and hit the speaker button. “Hi, Ryan.”

  “Hi ladies…you’re both there, right?”

  “Hi Ryan,” Westen said. “What did you find out?”

  “Nothing much. They were pretty close-mouthed. She is being brought back to New Hampshire. I couldn’t find out when or anything. I couldn’t find out if bail would be offered. I did find out one thing though, from an officer on duty in the front office. Apparently KJ had a visitor—somebody named Brett Hartshorn.”

  “The name sounds familiar.” Smith tipped her head up and peered at the ceiling. Then she shook her head. “Can’t think of where I’ve heard it.”

  “Something about the name is familiar to me too,” Westen said.

  “So, this Hartshorn guy visited KJ? Is that important somehow?” Smith asked.

  “It might be—she told him to get lost.”

  “So, that means he’s not a lawyer,” Smith noted.

  “No.” Westen snapped her fingers. “I know who he is. It’s her boyfriend.”

  “Are you sure? Why would she make him leave?”

  “I don’t think things are kosher in Denmark.” Ryan’s mix up of the clichés made them all laugh. “Call if you find out anything, or need anything.”

  “’Kay. G’night.”

  It was nearly ten o’clock. “Guess I should be going home.” Smith got off the couch.

  Westen followed her to the kitchen and handed over the keys.

  Smith put on her jacket, this one blue with yellow and white stripes. “What time should I come back in the morning?”

  “Neat jacket. Where’d you get it?” Westen asked.

  “Don’t remember. You like it?”

  “It works well for you.”

  Smith found her purse and tucked it under her arm.

  “Come back about eight?”

  “Okay. See you then.”

  “What’s that noise?”

  They stood still and listened. “It’s the cell phone,” Westen said.

  “Maybe Ryan found out something else.”

  They hurried to the living room. The phone had bounced off the table and was buzzing upside down on the carpet.

  Westen answered.

  “Who’s this—Westen?” came KJ’s voice. At least it sounded like KJ.

  “This is Westen.”

  “Oh. I’m so glad it’s you.” As opposed to it being Smith or who…police? “I need your help.” Just hers? “I’ve been arrested.”

  Smith hovered close. Westen hit the speaker button. “I know, KJ. What happened?”

  “Some cretin said I took the painting.”

  “People have been saying that since day one. What’s changed?” Smith said.

  “Smith, is that you? Good. What’s changed is somebody said they had proof I did it. I don’t know what that proof is, I’ve just gotten back in New Hampshire. I’m being arraigned in the morning, I’ll hear then.”

  “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “Yes, for whatever good it’ll do—he was court-appointed.”

  “Who’s behind this?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I think it might be Brett—my ex-boyfriend.”

  Why would he do that to her? Maybe he got tired of her self-serving personality. Before Westen could ask what was on her mind, she added, “Or it could’ve been Limp Cliffy.”

  Limp? Like he walked funny? “What did you say?”

  “Cliff Barnett. I work—worked with him. He might be revenging me because I wouldn’t go out with him.”

  Did people really go that far? “Okay, what do you want us to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “KJ, why did you call?”

  “I want you to bail me out.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Smith and Westen sat up talking until two a.m. about Kendra Jean’s arrest, and mulling over what legitimate evidence anyone could have against her. What did all this have to do with the painting? By then Smith had several beers and Westen didn’t want her driving so Smith sacked out in the guest room. Her new partner would really hate that room, Westen thought with an inner chuckle; it was decorated in muted shades of gray with a touch of pastel teal.

  They rose early and were out the door by eight o’clock. First stop was the police station where KJ was being held. The officer at the desk said they could see her but she wasn’t being arraigned until eleven so they wouldn’t yet know if bail would be granted. Smith and Westen followed an officer down a long corridor that smelled of disinfectant. KJ rose from the bench where she was seated.

  Westen gasped at her appearance. Clearly she hadn’t bathed in a couple of days. Her normally shiny hair was limp and listless. Her khaki skirt suit—well, it was better not mentioning how it looked. Good thing there was no mirror in the cell.

  “Where have you two been?” KJ said.

  Smith made an elaborate show of checking her watch. Then she turned a scowl on her.

  “I suppose you’ve spent all my money.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Smith asked.

  “You need to use it for my bail.”

  “We what?”

  “Are you deaf? Give it to them to get me out of here.”

  “KJ, I understand what you’re going through—”

  “You haven’t a clue what it’s like in here.”

  “But,” Westen said without missing a beat, “you don’t even know they’ll be letting you out. There are pretty serious charges against you. It could be a really high bail—more than the ten thousand.”

  “I don’t care.” Her voice rose to a screech. “Get me out of here!”

  In unison, Smith and Westen spun around and marched away. KJ was so busy shouting she didn’t seem to notice.

  Outside, Westen finally took a breath and let it out. Her nerves had been so on-end, she feared if she exhaled all her insides would come out too. She climbed into the hybrid and waited for Smith to buckle up. To regroup, Westen spent a few minutes adjusting the radio. Suddenly something dawned on her. “Drat.”

  “Woo, big curse word,” Smith chided.

  Westen got out and went back in the police station. Smith caught her by the sleeve just inside the door. “What’d you do, change your mind about the bail money?”

  “No. Didn’t we plan to talk to the police?” Westen stepped up to the main desk and asked to see Sergeant Bartowski.

  “She’s not in yet this morning.”

  “Yes, she is,” came from behind them.

  The sergeant was coming in the door. “Long night,” she said to them. She stepped to the side of the room gesturing
for them to follow.

  “Tell us about it—how come you give prisoners such late night phone calls?” Smith asked.

  The sergeant laughed. “You were her phone call?”

  Westen nodded. “I don’t know what she expected us to do since she hadn’t been arraigned yet. Will they set a bail?” Smith asked.

  “I can’t predict what the judge will do but since it’s her first offense and there’s no physical evidence—just hearsay—against her, probably they will. Then again, the painting is valued at a hundred million dollars.”

  “Can you tell us what evidence you have against her?” Westen asked.

  “Her boyfriend said she confessed—after sex—that she’d done it. He said she wouldn’t divulge where she stowed the painting because she was going to take the jail time and let the statute of limitations run out, then sell it when she got released. Apparently he found something on her computer that outlined the whole theft. We’ve confiscated the computer and have him in one of the interrogation rooms now.”

  “Is that possible—to let the statute of limitations run out, then collect the painting?” Smith asked.

  “Sure is.”

  “How much credence do you put in the boyfriend’s allegations?” Westen asked.

  “At first, I was sure she did it. Mind you, I haven’t seen the computer yet. But two things happened to change my mind. First was meeting with that stupid-ass boyfriend. I don’t like Kendra Jean at all, but God, what she saw in him I cannot fathom. He lied to me no less than three times in five minutes I spoke to him at her hotel. Secondly, I spent several not-entirely-unpleasant hours with Kendra Jean on the way back last night. Once you get past the it’s all about me—”

  “If you can,” Smith said.

  “Right. If you can, she’s not such a bad person. On top of that, she doesn’t act like a guilty person.”

  “Not everyone does,” Smith said.

  “I know but the way she talks, the way she acts—just doesn’t give off guilty vibes.”

  “You can’t take that to the captain,” Westen said.