On the Hook (19 page)

“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.”

“Good 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 Westen 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.

“So, I guess congratulations are in order. When are you two getting married?” the sergeant asked.

“I only just asked her last night. We haven’t set a date yet. I told her we should wait till she finds that painting so there’s no dark cloud hanging over our new life.”

“Very honorable of you.”

KJ couldn’t completely discern the tone the sergeant used. She thought it sounded sincere, which meant the policewoman believed the lying throw-rug who used to be her boyfriend. KJ’s stomach flipped over. She clutched both arms around her middle.

“I have to scoot along now. You know how it is, places to go, people to see,” the sergeant said. “And you must have to get to work.”

That’s right. Why wasn’t he at work? He should’ve been there hours ago.

“Since Kendra Jean and I were up all night, I took the day off. The boss wasn’t too happy, but I have lots of time coming. Mind if I walk up with you?”

“Yes. I do mind. I need you to go now.”

“That’s fine. I’ll see Kendra Jean later for dinner anyway. Nice meeting up with you, Sergeant.”

Sergeant Bartowski, to her credit, didn’t say good-bye to Brett. It raised her a point or two in KJ’s eyes. The sergeant continued on toward the desk, alert, it was clear, to where Brett Hartshorn had gone—which was
not
out of the building. He’d ducked behind a pillar at the other side of the lobby. This place was getting quite claustrophobic. KJ feared discovery just by the sheer number of potential witnesses.

The sergeant got the attention of a male concierge. KJ picked out snatches of words that said she was indeed being sought by the police. The clerk shook his head, punched a few keys on the computer and shook his head again—no, Ms. Valentine had not checked out. Then he picked up the phone and waited. Shook his head a third time—Ms. Valentine didn’t seem to be in her room. The sergeant said something and when the clerk took up a key, KJ knew they were on their way upstairs—Ms. Valentine, we’re coming to get you.

It wouldn’t be long before the news of KJ’s
escape
was public knowledge. A warrant would probably be issued in her name.

No need to wait around any longer. All she had to do was clear this place without drawing Brett’s attention. KJ peered right. No Brett. A left-hand glance showed him leaning against the pole, watching the elevator into which the sergeant had just disappeared.

KJ did as she’d done earlier and slid into a group of conference-goers on their way outdoors. Once on the sidewalk, she ducked inside a waiting cab. KJ had no sooner buckled the seatbelt—a good thing because the driver shot away from the curb so fast she almost got whiplash—when her cell rang. She recognized the number and answered with a delighted, “Raven, my darling computer guru, what news do you have for me?”

“I have three names for you. First: Ernest Falwell.”

“I don’t know much about him personally. He made it big in the stock market at quite a young age. I know he does a lot of charity work, particularly around Chicago. He’s big in the arts. Has quite an extensive collection of sculptures in his penthouse.”

“I know him.” It was rumored he’d help facilitate the transfer of the Picasso.

“He knows two people with whom you should be familiar: Charles Fenwick and Henderson McGee.”

“Interesting, but not surprising. Both curators are well known worldwide.”

“Apparently Falwell, along with Fenwick made it possible for you to bring it there.”

“Again, interesting but I’m not sure how that can help get me out of this mess. I can’t imagine he had anything to do with stealing the painting.”

“Doubtful, but I wanted to mention that your name came up in research to do with him. Second name: Sandra Elliott.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Is she the collector you mentioned in California?” she asked.

“No. I haven’t been able to get a line on that one yet. You can imagine how sensitive some of this information is. Hard to get, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, Raven. I’ll make it worth your while. So, nothing on this Elliott woman?”

“Not yet. I’m working on it.”

“You mentioned somebody spearheading a drive to get me arrested. Did you find out any names?”

“That’s the third name: Brett Hartshorn.”