On the Hook (18 page)

Westen watched him, part of her expecting him to rabbit the way Mr. Fenwick had yesterday. But he didn’t do anything more than follow the slowly chugging machine to a room off another wing. The doctor gestured for Smith and Westen to wait. They stood near the far wall of a vast hallway, out of the way in case the fork truck driver whizzed by without looking for pedestrians. Neither woman spoke.

Westen lost sight of Doctor Batchelder. She said a quick wish that there was no illusive back exit where he’d disappear and they’d spend two hours waiting here like bumps.

Thankfully, he did come out. He stood to the side so the fork truck could make its way back the way it had come. “Good afternoon, ladies. I’m sorry I was unable to meet with you the other day. I was unavoidably detained in Lima. Next month our museum will host an exhibit on Peruvian antiquities. That’s what’s in the crate. Come. I’ll show you the room where it’ll be.” The doctor drew jangling keys from inside his breast pocket and locked the storeroom with two different keys, on two different chains.

So…he thought they were the original investigators. Darned if she’d correct that faux pas.

He walked to the left with an unhurried grace. As the corridor angled upwards, they passed an Egyptian exhibit that Westen wished she could’ve stopped to compare to the one in Chicago. They passed a Grecian room.

“This display is ending this weekend. It was quite a draw. I’ll be sorry to see it go.”

“You seem very busy here.”

“If you have any experience with arts and historical items, you’ll find it’s important to keep exhibits new and original. It’s difficult enough to draw people, and this is how we do it.” With a grand flourish, he opened a room painted on all four walls with what Westen assumed were the Andes Mountains. Along the fields near the base, shepherds gathered herds of llamas. On the narrow, treacherous mountain paths, burros wended their way carrying woven baskets attached to the sides of their saddles.

“Wow,” Smith said.

“Aptly said,” Doctor Batchelder laughed. “Now, I assume you have some questions for me.”

“I think some of them—about how the transfer process works—have already been answered. As you know, we’re trying to recover the Picasso you housed here the other day. We understand you were particularly diligent in taking care of it.”

“We don’t do too many of that sort of job. Mostly we bring in exhibits, pack them and send them back.” The doctor’s face grew serious. His hands clenched near his waist and his fingers tapped a staccato beat against his lowest button.

“May we see where you stored it?”

“Certainly.” He shut the door. They fell into step beside him in the wide hallway. Another wing and another dark corridor, he opened a door and flicked on a switch. The room, about ten by ten, became bathed in fluorescent light. The room was empty.

He stood wringing gnarled hands as Westen made her way carefully around the shiny cement floor. The room had no windows, no openings at all, as far as she could tell—without feeling the walls with her palms and tapping to listen for hollow spots. She nearly laughed. She’d seen people do that on television but had no idea if the method really worked.

“So, the crate holding the Picasso was left here.” She stopped about dead center.

“Yes, exactly where you’re standing.”

Westen peered closely at the floor. Nothing whatsoever marred the pristine finish. Not a scrap of paper or a morsel of dirt.

“You locked the door and…where did you spend the night?” Smith asked.

The doctor laughed. “Right outside in the hallway. On a rollaway cot. Do you want to see it?”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Smith moved toward the door. Westen and the doctor followed. He shut the door.

“Did you know either of the drivers or guards who transported the painting?” Smith asked.

“No. I was told they were all hired by the woman who arranged the exhibit.”

“They were. I just wondered. They’ve done quite a number of similar transports so I thought conceivably you’d heard of them.”

“They hadn’t done anything for us. Speaking of that nice insurance lady. Is she all right? Not taking too much flak for the theft?”

“She is in some rather scalding water. That’s why we’re pushing so hard to find the Picasso,” Westen said. “Had you ever met Kendra Jean Valentine before all this?”

“No. We spoke several times on the phone. It was nice finally meeting her in person.”

“Well,” Smith said, “I think we’ve seen everything. Westen, you good?”

She nodded. They thanked the doctor and exited the building. As they made their way down the many stone steps, Smith said, “That man’s as guilty as sin. I wonder who was the first person to say th—”

Westen couldn’t help chuckling, and then adding what she knew. “It’s got to do with religion and the guilt of committing a crime.”

Smith’s, “Oh, shut up,” made them both laugh.

“What makes you think he had anything to do with this?”

“Didn’t you see how nervous he got when we started talking about the painting? I wouldn’t be surprised the Picasso is someplace in that building.”

“How do you propose he took it from the truck? Remember, KJ saw it safely locked inside the Starfire truck.”

Smith stopped on the bottom step. “I don’t know how he did it.” She punctuated the air with her fist. “But I’ll stake my budding investigator’s career that he is somehow involved.”

Chapter Twenty

Since the flight to New Hampshire didn’t leave till noon Saturday, they spent a couple of hours interviewing one of the guards KJ had hired. Theo Tuttle actually lived in Chicago but said he had another job here in Buffalo that’d last until the end of the week.

As with the truck drivers, Smith and Westen couldn’t find a single thing that made him look guilty. He was much-sought in high-end transports—which was the only thing Westen found the least bit suspicious. What did he do above and beyond other guards that made him so necessary? But in the eleven years he’d been doing this, not a single item blemished his record. He was single, didn’t owe any money, had never had so much as a parking ticket. Another suspicious thing; didn’t everyone have a skeleton in their guard shack? The only quirky thing they learned from the interview—he liked Kendra Jean. If his information was to be believed, he’d gone out with her the other day. Westen’s head spun with the names of KJ’s men.

The fact that he liked her was suspect.

Smith and Westen spent the rest of the day lounging around the hotel, neither wanting to explore the city of Buffalo, New York. Nor did either of them want to chance seeing the person tailing them. Westen doubted anyone was there. She’d never seen anyone. Surely this morning, Smith had imagined the car following them. They’d watched carefully on the way to the museum and not seen a thing.

“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.”