On the Hook (28 page)

“They didn’t find it. Yet. I’ll keep you posted.” She put the phone away. “I was hoping that’d give us a direction to go.”

“You should’ve asked how his silver lynx is doing.”

“Didn’t think of it. I wonder what he would’ve said.” Westen gestured in the direction Kerrington had indicated. “Let’s walk that way for a while. The police report said they turned around in the parking lot of an electrical supply company. Let’s see if we can find it. Or the motel they were going to stay at.”

“What good would that do?”

“Probably none. It would be a guideline to how far they got from the museum.”

They passed a café. Westen had a dickens of a time keeping Smith from going inside. “We’ll get lunch on the way back.”

Beside the café was a post office, a hairdresser, and myriad small businesses. They strode past a day care with children giggling and chasing each other in a fenced yard. Beside the fenced yard, full of colorful slides and sand boxes was a long, abandoned building. One side of the building formed the farthest wall of the kids’ yard. Most all the second floor windows were broken. It appeared to be some sort of factory. Writing on the building had once been blue but now it was so faded it was impossible to make out.

They located the electric supply company Kerrington mentioned four blocks further along. The driveway was surely big enough for the tractor and twenty-foot trailer to turn around in. Naturally, days later, there was no evidence the Starfire truck had been here. It was the single time in recent memory that Westen had wished for snow—usually she hated the cold, wet, slippery stuff—thinking they might be able to match up some tire tracks. Oh well, what did it matter anyway? The painting was already gone by the time the truck got to this point.

But as they retraced their steps and entered the diner, the glimmer of an idea formed in her brain. The idea was too vague—wouldn’t form because of something else that was getting in the way—a second image. The combination of the two was causing an unsettled situation in her gut that was quite debilitating.

Westen wanted nothing more than to sit in her living room and stare into the fireplace. The crackling of the flames always soothed her soul. She’d spent a lot of time on that hearth in the past months. If she could have a couple of hours, she was sure she could get the ideas together enough to show her where that painting had gone. Contrary to the opinions of most others, Westen was certain the Picasso was still in the US.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The sergeant led KJ through the security check and down a long corridor. They entered a room filled with criminals. Some wore leg restraints. Some wore orange jumpsuits. All were in handcuffs—including her. At least the sergeant had let her shower and change into clean clothes, which was more advantage than some of these guys seemed to have. The sergeant had clicked the handcuffs in the front so at least she could sit normally. And sit she did, in a corner as far from the lowlifes as she could get.

Sergeant Bartowski said to “sit tight” and she’d be back when it was time.

The sergeant looked like a man in her freshly pressed uniform and stiff cap, standing beside the other law officers. But she also looked every inch the professional. Who’d ever guess that she cooed over Chopin and cried like a baby when she watched “It’s a Wonderful Life”?

After a long, friendly looking conversation with her cohorts, the sergeant left the room. She didn’t return for more than two hours. By then, KJ was cranky, tired of dodging the advances of the foul smelling man somebody had sat beside her, and she had to pee so bad she could taste it. She wondered where Theo was. Whether he had gotten back to Chicago—if he knew what had happened to her. She convinced herself he couldn’t know. He’d be here, wouldn’t he?

She was allowed a trip to the ladies room where Sergeant Bartowski remained leaning against the sink, making sure KJ didn’t try to squeeze between the bars on the window near the ceiling.

“Hurry up,” Sergeant Bartowski called, “or they’ll put us at the end of the docket.”

“I’m done.” KJ exited the stall and washed her hands as best as she could with the handcuffs in the way. They went back, this time entering the courtroom near the front. Great. Front and center. Everyone in the place was getting a firsthand glimpse of the woman accused of stealing the hundred million dollar painting. They could go screw themselves. She’d lived through more trying times than this—like the day her brother got hit by a car and spent a year in a full body cast. Talk about trying times! No insurance and daily trips to the hospital. It nearly broke the entire family apart. The Valentine family was made of strong stuff and if they could make it through that, she could get through this.

As she settled onto the hard bench seat, KJ shot a quick glance around the side of the courtroom. God no. What were Sam and Limp Cliffy doing here? They sat side-by-side near the back of the room. Could this be any worse?

Yes, if Brett were here too.

Where was her attorney? Was that him? She’d only met the tall greasy-looking guy who couldn’t have been more than a month out of law school once. To his credit, he seemed knowledgeable about high-end thefts and the bail resulting from them. He’d assured her he’d get her out. What he’d meant was he’d convince the judge to set a bail. The fact that she had no means to pay it wasn’t his concern.

The judge entered. He was tall and distinguished, and wearing a take-no-prisoners expression on his smooth skinned face.

KJ’s case was introduced. Her baby-faced lawyer spoke first. “Your honor, Ms. Valentine is an upstanding member of the community. She’s got a spotless record and a solid job and reputation. She’s not a flight risk by any stretch of the imagination.” He asked for her to be released on personal recognizance.

The county attorney for the prosecution shot to his feet as if there’d been dynamite in his chair. “Your honor, Miss Valentine was arrested
in the process
of fleeing.”

“No she wasn’t, your honor. She was in Chicago”—he said Chicago as if nobody in their right mind would consider running there—“endeavoring to unravel this mess.”

“I want to hear from you, Miss Valentine. Tell me what’s going on.”

The judge still wore that no-nonsense face. And she was still trembling, but it would be her only chance to win him over. KJ stood, handcuffs clinking like a pipe-organ, and looked the judge in the eye. Her grandfather had always said that was the best way to prove you were telling the truth. “Your honor. I didn’t take the painting. I did my best to ensure it was safe during transport to the museum. I have no idea how it got out of the trailer. It was there when we loaded in Buffalo.”

“And it wasn’t there when you arrived at the museum.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why are you being blamed?”

“Someone called the police and said they have evidence that I took it. I don’t know what that evidence could be because I didn’t do it.”

“Mr. Prosecutor. What have you got?”

“We have Miss Valentine’s computer where she, in detail, planned the robbery.”

“I did not!”

The judge raised his hand signaling for her to be quiet. Which she did, even before her lawyer jabbed her in the ribs.

“We’re not here to determine guilt or innocence,” the judge said. “A trial will do that. We’re here to decide if you warrant being released on bail. And I’m inclined to deny bail. I—”

A ruckus sounded at the back of the room. Everyone, including KJ, swung around to see what was happening. Two people were wrestling near the double doors. Punching and pulling hair, they toppled to the floor and disappeared from sight behind the last row of bench seats. A pair of guards raced toward the battling people—one of them leaping over the bar without opening the gate.

Something gripped the back of her shirt and yanked her feet right off the floor.

“Run, Kendra Jean. Run!” a voice called.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Westen toyed with her salad as two problem images strived for dominance in her mind. She really shouldn’t think of them as problems because she had no doubt they would combine to form the solution to the Picasso puzzle. Thankfully, nothing that happened this afternoon had dispelled her knowledge of the thief’s identity. She hadn’t shared the information with Smith—not because she was trying to be a showman, but because she wanted to percolate it in her mind. Westen would dearly love a few hours to sit in front of the fireplace to mull things over. Alone. A fire crackling while she sat on the hearth, legs crossed and surrounded by total silence—always helped with difficult decisions.

Right now, even if the luxury of the fire was unavailable, concentration on the puzzle would be unable to happen because of the words spoken by Phoebe Smith on their way into the diner twenty minutes ago: “Since I’m being evicted, I think I should move in with you.” Westen, too stunned to reply, continued playing with the same leaf of romaine.

Smith had started to open the ever-present manila folder, but stopped and shoved it to one side. Then she added, as if to make the idea more appealing: “That way we could save on expenses.”

This didn’t jive in Westen’s head because since Smith had been fired from her job—the one she wouldn’t talk about—how did she plan to pay her share? Smith hadn’t mentioned looking for another job. Which meant Westen would be responsible for all the bills.

Then memory returned; she had no job either.

Of course, if they found the painting, all problems, dilemmas, and proposals would be moot. The question was, if they got paid ten percent for recovering the Picasso, and if Smith had already moved in, would she move back out?

Yes, they got along well enough, but that was probably because each knew they could retreat to separate corners at a later date. She and Smith were total opposites, in every way imaginable.

“Are you going to answer me?” Smith asked.

Westen put down her fork, the lettuce leaf dangling from it. “What was the question?”

“I said, we should move in together.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Don’t, as you say, throw semantics at me. Can I move in or not?”

“Could I take some time to think about it? This is a big change for both of us.”

“You’re gonna say we don’t know each other good enough.”

“Well, we don’t.”

Smith laughed. “We totally know each other.”

“How do you figure that?”

“You take whatever you don’t like—that’ll be what I like.” Smith had that right. Not exactly something to base a live-in relationship on. “Remember, they say opposites attract.”

“Take it from me, they don’t.” Westen picked up her fork. “Can we talk about the case for a while?”

Smith sagged as if someone had stuck a pin in her. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

“First off, KJ. Should we hurry to the courthouse and be there for the arraignment?”

Smith speared a French fry. “Nah.”

“Why not?”

“Would she do it for us?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean we have to act like her.”

“Okay, one subject off your mind. What’s next?” She popped the fry into her mouth.

Westen used the time it took to chew and swallow a piece of tomato to formulate the next question. At the last second, she shelved it and said, “Are you almost done? We have to get to the police station to look at those tapes.”

Smith wasn’t fooled by the change in subject but she downed the last of her soda and piled the silverware on the empty plate. She stood up. “Yup.” As they left the building she asked, “What do you expect to see on the tapes?”

“I don’t expect to see anything, but I’m hoping to see a person near the truck, a velvet bag flying off the roof, a piece of the frame lying in the road—I don’t know. I’m just desperate for clues. I want us to be the ones to find that painting. I want that money.”

“Ditto.”

Which made her wonder why, in the several days they’d been chasing clues, hadn’t they met any of the army of investigators on the case? Were they that far ahead? Couldn’t be; they hadn’t found the painting either.

Westen, as a small token of apology, handed Smith the keys and they climbed into the hybrid.

At the police station, instead of getting out, Smith passed the keys to Westen. “So, what’s the problem, why don’t you like me?”

“I do like you.” This was obviously related to the discussion about living together, and since Smith wasn’t about to drop the matter, she said, “I know you’re going to take this wrong, or as a cop-out, but listen before you say anything. The past months have been hell for me. I lost my husband and son. I have been on the verge of losing everything else. This case—and the ramifications of what’ll happen if we don’t find it—are torturing me. Yes, I have the money Grady paid for the shop, but the bills are going to eat up a bunch of it. The rest won’t last forever.” She could tell Smith wanted to talk but she forged on, “The idea of being responsible for another person, someone else’s meals, or even making regular dialogue, are too much for me to think about right at this moment. If you can be patient a while… If you need money, I’m sure I—”

“No need. I mean, I need cash, but I’ll live. I gotta apologize for being so selfish. You seem so strong and together that I forgot what you’ve been through. I can’t think how bad that must’ve been.”

Westen stopped Smith with a hand on her arm. “Don’t say any more, you’ll have me blubbering like an idiot. Let’s just go look at the videos. And if you’re of the persuasion, say a prayer we’ll find something.”

Hours later, Westen’s eyes were burning. Clip after clip ran through the player. On a notepad, she wrote the times the truck traveled through each area. Later, she’d compare the notes with GPS estimated times to see if everything jibed. If there was even a moment unaccounted for, it’d narrow down the places where the theft could’ve happened.

The last to go in the machine was an unlabeled video. Odd because all the others had detailed markings as to the camera’s location and angle. A parking lot appeared on the screen. It looked familiar. They fast-forwarded through hours of scenes where cars of all sizes and shapes sped into the lot and zipped into parking spaces. The speedy scenes looked like Keystone Kop cars. Suddenly a familiar car appeared. Westen slowed the machine and saw a police cruiser.