On the Hook (23 page)

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Later.”

They took her to a cell. No sooner had the door clicked shut when she remembered Theo. “Wait.” The officer didn’t stop walking away. Every hour on the hour, she asked to re-make her phone call. Every hour on the hour, she dialed two numbers, and listened to two phones ring. Until nearly four in the afternoon.

Ryan seemed surprised to hear her voice coming from that Caller ID number.

“Oh. You finally answered.”

“Hello Kendra Jean.”

Hadn’t she told him not to call her that? “Ryan, I need you. I’m in jail. I need you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Come bail me out.”

“It’s going to be a while, I’m out of town.”

“Where?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She guessed she had no choice. “Okay.” He hung up. Why hadn’t he asked why she’d been arrested?

“When can I get bail?” she asked the person listening in on the call.

“No bail.”

Oh God. “What?” She followed the officer to her cell.

“No bail.”

Man, they weren’t very cordial to suspects. No bail? “Of course there’s got to be bail. You have nothing to hold me on. No evidence.” KJ leaned as far forward as she could given that her handcuffs had been attached to the chair. “I didn’t do it. There can be no evidence.”

The woman shut the cell door and stood staring at KJ as if waiting to issue another two-word pronouncement.

Enough said. She sat on the bed and crossed her arms. The next move was theirs.

And move they did. At five-thirty they brought a plate of macaroni and cheese and two slices of buttered white bread. They sure weren’t worried about their residents’ cholesterol. The macaroni looked like it came from a box. Tasted like cardboard—so it probably
had
come from a box. KJ ate it because she hadn’t eaten all day and didn’t know when another meal might come. She dozed with her head against the cold, cinder block wall waiting for Ryan to show up.

The sharp clang of a cell door startled KJ awake. What time was it? They’d taken her watch so she had no idea. A tiny window showed an overcast sky, so even that wasn’t an indicator. It had to be morning. Why didn’t Ryan come? He’d said he was out of town, but jeez, where was he—China? She hadn’t been surprised when Theo didn’t answer his phone. He’d said he’d be away till the weekend.

KJ needed coffee, bad. And a hairbrush, and a toothbrush. Voices at the end of the hall muttered something about breakfast. Hopefully coffee would be included. At this point, it didn’t even matter if it was good coffee—which it probably wasn’t. A few minutes later, a woman bailiff appeared carrying a tray with two sunny-side-up eggs, two slices of white bread and a cup of coffee already doctored with cream, and probably sugar. KJ asked if Ryan had come and was told by the officer that she didn’t know. She asked, “Can I have another phone call?” and was told soon. She thanked the woman and took the tray to her bed. With the tray on her knees, she ate the bread. Sunny side up eggs made her want to gag so she left them on the plate.

Sometime later, the tray was collected. “Am I going to be arraigned?” she asked.

“You’re going back to New Hampshire.”

That was probably why they’d said, no bail. “Any idea when?”

“No. There’s someone to see you though.”

Finally Ryan had arrived! KJ finger-combed her hair and tucked in her blouse as she made her way to the meeting area. Brett waved from behind the glass. KJ spun on her heel and knocked on the door. “I’m ready to go back to the cell.”

“KJ.”

He had to know there was no bail being issued. So, what did he want? Easy enough to find out. “What do you want, Brett?”

“I’m bailing you out. You do want to get out of here, right?”

“Who told you I was here?”

Was that small hesitation born of guilt?

“It was all over the news,” he finally said.

KJ considered asking him point-blank if he was responsible for all this, but he’d lie with a face so straight you could lay a yardstick across it—and, if history repeated, she’d believe him. KJ gulped down that truth and knocked again on the door.

“I told you the other day to get out of my life.”

He gave an elaborate shrug. “I love you. We’re getting married.”

“Did you see that on the television too? Because it’s news to me.”

“I asked you.”

“No you didn’t. You told Sergeant Bartowski—” She stopped. He wasn’t supposed to know she’d been anywhere near the hotel.

“How do you know what I said to that cop?”

“She told me. As a matter of fact, you told her a lot of lies.” KJ leaned closer. “News flash. I’m not marrying you—ever.” She turned toward the door. A bailiff had arrived.

“KJ. Don’t go.”

The urge to have the last word surged like a tidal wave; somehow KJ stifled it and fled the room. “Can I make that phone call now?”

“Others in line. I’ll take you in a while.”

KJ no sooner settled on the edge of her bed when another officer arrived. “There’s someone to see you.”

“Someone different?”

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“I just got back from seeing somebody, and if it’s the same man again, I am not going.”

“I don’t know who it was.”

KJ heaved a sigh and retraced her steps down the hallway. It wasn’t Brett who was waiting; she knew because as they passed one of the outer doors, she spotted him at the main desk. Probably trying to get permission to escort her back to New Hampshire. She was desperate to get out of here but would go with him when elephants wore thimbles for shoes.

Ryan performed a wave similar to the one Brett had given a short time ago. Finally!

KJ hurried to the window. “Where the hell have you been? Do you know what I’ve been through all night?”

Ryan rose, repeated the wave, and left the room. All her shouts to come back didn’t make him so much as flinch.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Sunday morning, Smith and Westen stepped into Concord, NH police headquarters and were directed to the office of Sergeant C. Bartowski. Before Westen could ask whether it was the woman sergeant, or a Polish sergeant—or both—a deep voice spoke on the other side.

“But Chief—”

Westen raised her hand to knock, but was interrupted by the voice saying, “But sir, I—” For once, when someone spoke in single-word increments, she wasn’t the recipient. “Sir. Yes, sir. We’ll find it. Thank you.”

The conversation appeared over. Smith knocked.

“C’min.”

They did.

The woman behind the desk, piled high with folders and paperwork, stood. At about 5’5”, her chest barely showed above the stacks. She pointed to the window overlooking the back parking lot. “God, look at that sunshine. What I wouldn’t do to be out there.”

“It’s chilly,” Westen said to make her feel better.

The sergeant made a face that said she’d rather be outside even if a blizzard was battering the town.

“Typical New England spring,” Westen disliked the mundane conversation but since working at the pet shop she’d realized it was people’s way of breaking the ice. “My snowdrops don’t seem to mind, they’re poking through the mulch anyway.”

“Mine too. I have some pink daffodils blooming out front of my apartment.” The sergeant tucked unkempt hair behind one ear and stepped around the desk to shake hands with Smith and then Westen, who made the introductions.

“We have been asked to investigate the theft of the Picasso lost en route from Buffalo to the museum here in Concord.”

“You working for Kendra Jean Valentine?”

“Yes,” Smith said, “but don’t let that color your judgment.”

Westen nearly laughed. She’d caught the change in the sergeant’s tone at the mention of the painting too. She wondered if the overheard comment about finding it had been related to the theft. If so, she was under great pressure, which should work in their favor.

The mousy haired woman smirked, then grinned. “She drives me crazy. Almost drove me to violence yesterday.”

“Was that violence
toward
her?” Smith said. “Happens to me every time I see her.”

“Any idea where she is?”

“Not really,” Westen said, “we met up with her at the airport in Philly. We were on our way back from Buffalo.”

“Damn her. She was told not to leave town.”

“We figured she was following—checking up on us. She wasn’t happy when we wouldn’t check in with her every five minutes,” Westen said.

“And we mean every
five
minutes,” Smith added.

“Did she say where she was heading?” The sergeant motioned to a sofa and two chairs near the side wall. Smith and Westen took the sofa; she perched on the arm of one chair.

“No,” Westen answered. “We figured she followed us from Buffalo.”

“Can’t be. She was here in town yesterday morning.” The sergeant raked hair off her face. “Which means she was heading west.”

“You think she’s skipping out?” Smith asked.

The sergeant heaved a sigh. “I don’t know.” She looked at the watch on her left wrist. “Guess I’ll have to track her down. In the meantime, what can I do for you?”

“In Chicago and Buffalo, we talked to anyone we could find related to the case. We inspected the tractor, and an identical trailer to the one used. And came up with nothing,” Smith said.

The sergeant nodded. “Did you trace the route they took from Buffalo?”

“No,” Westen said. “Since they didn’t stop anywhere, we assum—”

“So they say.”

“Well,” Smith said, “unless KJ, four guards and two truckers are in on this together, I can’t see how that could work.”

“Stranger things have happened. The painting is valued at a hundred million dollars. Even selling it to a private buyer, they could each be set for life.”

“I have to admit,” Smith said, “it’s the only theory that makes sense but I guess there’s not enough information to arrest her, right?”

“No. Frankly, I’m not a hundred percent convinced she’s guilty. But my captain...he is. He wants me to put in some legwork… Get this case closed and Ms. Kendra Jean Valentine locked up.”

“Do sergeants do that?” Smith asked. “Put in the legwork?”

“Sure. Especially when they’re taking the lieutenant’s exam in four months.”

Smith nodded as if she experienced this all the time. She got up and paced a few steps.

“I ran a bunch of ridiculous ideas through my head,” Westen said. “One was that somebody stowed away on top of that trailer, climbed through that hatch in the front of it, then passed the painting to somebody in a separate car. I know, I know, the scenario precludes being seen by at least a dozen people, first and foremost the drivers.”

“The painting couldn’t fit through that hatchway,” Smith said.

“But the frame could be broken apart and the pieces heaved out the opening,” Westen said. “Passerby—even KJ herself—would just think it was trash flying around.”

The sergeant’s face scrunched while she mulled over the idea, kicking the side of the chair with her heel. “That could work, I suppose, but it rules out a bunch of things. First, no way they could clean up every single piece from the trailer floor. State police and none of the forensics teams found anything. Nada. Admittedly, the frame could’ve been tossed out along with all the wrappings—the velvet bag, the bubble wrap and whatever else but I can’t imagine that KJ, who swears she didn’t take her eyes off the trailer for eight hours, would miss something like that. Third, if the thing is going sixty-five to seventy miles an hour, whoever’s on the roof would be swept off. I don’t care if James Bond does it in the movies, it’s against the laws of gravity.”

“Would it be all right if we went to the impound lot to look the trailer over?”

“I don’t see why not.” The sergeant got up with a grunt and made a call. She returned after scribbling directions to the impound lot and handing the paper to Westen.

“What if…” Smith resumed her seat on the on the arm of the chair, “the person wasn’t stowed away on top of the trailer. What if they jumped from an overpass or something? If it was done in heavy traffic, in a city where they’d be going slower, maybe KJ wouldn’t notice.”

“I’m doubtful that could be done without her seeing. But I suppose, with the right planning and a bucket-load of luck, it could work.”

“Besides, you’re in a bind to close this thing and don’t have any other ideas,” Smith said.

“Right you are.”

“So…if you were us,” Westen said, “where would you start?”

“I think I’d backtrack over the route from—”

“It’s an eight hour trip if you drive straight through!” Smith exclaimed.

“Remember I mentioned renting a car and doing this on the way home,” Westen said softly.

Smith’s “Oh shut up,” brought a wide grin from the sergeant, who shrugged. “I’d get a detailed map and figure out the locations where this might work.” She counted on her fingers. “They’re traveling during the day. Anything they do could be spotted, so I’d leave out rural areas. I’d find an overpass leading into a fairly busy town so the truck isn’t going seventy miles per hour, a place where nobody would notice stuff
blowing off a roof
. The guy would have to have an accomplice, somebody who followed KJ’s car and stopped to pick up the painting when it was thrown out.”

“She wouldn’t have paid attention to anyone following them,” Westen noted.

“That’s right. All she cared about was anyone getting inside or disabling the trailer.”

“I don’t see how this scenario could work,” Westen said after a bit more thought. “Surely either of the drivers would notice somebody climbing through that opening in the front of the trailer.”

“Got any better ideas?” the sergeant said.

“No.”

“Wait,” Smith said. “What if they’re in one of those trucks that has a camper attached?”

“You mean a sleeper?” Sergeant Bartowski offered.

“Right. Because of its shape and size, I bet they couldn’t see if somebody was there.”

The phone rang. The red light on the front made the sergeant scowl. She gave a dismissive, “Let me know how things go?”

Westen performed a Girl Scout salute. They let themselves out of the office as Sergeant Bartowski answered the phone with, “Yes, Captain.”