On the Hook (29 page)

“That’s the lot outside this building,” Smith said.

Westen let the video go forward at normal speed. Another cruiser entered and pulled alongside the first. Sergeant Bartowski got out of the passenger side of the second car. Almost immediately, a tractor and trailer slid into the lot and stopped, taking up two parking spaces.

By then, Westen wasn’t surprised to see Knox and Kerrington get out. This tape had to be from the night of the theft. She leaned forward, anxious not to miss a thing.

Something wasn’t right. She popped out the tape and put in one they’d just viewed. It had been taken from a bank’s camera four blocks from the museum. Westen waited till the truck and trailer came into view and hit the Pause button. The truck stopped. Again she leaned forward, squinting at the truck.

Now, Smith did likewise. “What do you see? Are you thinking it’s different guys or something?”

“I’m not sure. Something’s not right. Do we have a video from the museum?”

“I think so.” Smith shuffled through the DVDs and cassettes and found the one in question.

Twice more they switched tapes and watched the truckers getting in and out of the vehicle.

Next they watched a video also taken at the museum, of the convoy arriving. One car, the tractor-trailer and the follow car, just as they’d all portrayed. The lead car slipped off to one side while the trailer maneuvered into position at the loading dock. KJ’s follow-car waited and pulled up beside once it was parked.

The first to exit any of the vehicles was KJ, then the driver, and the two guards in that car. One of the guards—the dark haired one—patted her on the arm and said something to which she replied with a smile. Westen had the idea she’d agreed to a date. If so, that’d make him Theo Tuttle.

KJ rubbed her eyes, looking exhausted. But when Knox and Brad climbed from the truck’s cab, she perked up, becoming almost childlike and giddy as she climbed the steps to the dock where white-haired Henderson McGee stood.

The other two guards and driver joined them on the dock. Knox and Brad went to work opening the trailer while all four guards disappeared into the building. No tape was available of the unloading of the crate but a few minutes later, Knox and Brad climbed into the tractor and pulled away.

No video showed the commotion that must’ve occurred as they realized the painting was missing. A minute later, one of the guards raced onto the dock, talking rapidly into a walkie-talkie.

Westen watched the clock-counter carefully here—eight minutes elapsed from the time the tractor left till it returned. Was that appropriate amount of time to get to the electrical supply place and turn around? She thought so, if there wasn’t much traffic, which there probably wasn’t on a Monday evening.

Another cassette showed the arrival of police. Though the angle didn’t permit for viewing inside the trailer, it was clear they’d spent an inordinate amount of time searching above, below and inside. The tape ended when the crate was loaded back into the trailer. Knox and Brad unhooked it and left the yard. Another tractor came, hitched to it, and drove it away, presumably taking it to the police impound lot.

Westen rubbed her burning eyes. “I can’t look at these any more. Are you ready to leave?”

“Yup. I’m starving. My stomach’s been growling for an hour.”

“I thought that was mine.” She stood, gathered the tapes, and fitted them back into the cardboard box the desk officer had provided.

They left the box with him. “Is Sergeant Bartowski back from court yet?”

“No. Haven’t seen her.”

They left, shivering in the cold late afternoon air. Smith dropped Westen in the driveway saying she’d return in the morning.

In the breezeway, exhausted, Westen doffed her jacket on the wooden rack Ben had built so many years ago. She let herself into the kitchen, dropped into the nearest chair, kicked off her shoes and sagged against the hard back.

Westen woke with a start, suddenly knowing what had been bothering her in the videos at the police station. She replayed a mental scene of the tractor and trailer leaving the museum after the crate had been unloaded. It had turned left out of the driveway en route to a motel. They hadn’t made it that far because the guard had radioed them to come back, which they’d done, turning around in the parking lot of the electric company.

They were back in eight minutes. Was that enough time to carry out the scenario racing through her brain? It had to be.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The courtroom was in total bedlam. The judge pounded his gavel shouting for quiet in the court. A woman screamed. Men shouted. Limbs thumped and thudded on wood objects. A wood chair whizzed past KJ’s head just as she landed in a heap behind the bar.

When she fell, the hand shook loose of her shirt. It returned quickly and took hold of a sleeve. He yanked and repeated, “Run! Hurry.”

She struggled to her feet, difficult with her wrists cuffed.

He grasped her hand and tugged. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. There’s not much time.”

KJ took two steps toward the door. Then her senses returned. She stopped in her tracks and wrenched her arm away. Then backed so he couldn’t grab her again. “Leave me alone.”

He tried again, this time pushing her sideways to get her moving.

“No, Brett! I’m not going.”

“Arrest that man!” shouted the judge.

As if from mid-air, someone appeared on either side of her. They jerked Brett’s arm the same way he’d been yanking on hers. Cuffs were snapped roughly; her ex was hauled ignominiously away.

KJ was escorted to the front.

She stood at attention beside her lawyer—who’d never moved from the spot—heart pounding like a woodpecker, head bent to her chest. At long last, order was achieved. KJ sneaked a sideways look, to the last place she’d seen Brett, but he was gone.

What had he been thinking? As soon as the judge said he wasn’t allowing bail, Brett must’ve gone berserk. She couldn’t imagine what he expected to do once they got outside. An all-out manhunt would’ve taken them down within blocks of the building. On hearing the judge’s words, her insides had done a whirlpool impression. Running wasn’t an option. Somehow this disaster would be straightened out. They would not, could not, put an innocent person in prison.

The judge banged his gavel. “Miss Valentine.”

KJ quivered at the tone of his voice.

“I commend you for not going with that man.”

“Thank you, your Honor.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Yes sir. He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

There was a moment of quiet as the judge apparently recalled the testimony prior to the interruption. “Didn’t someone tell me he was the one who accused Miss Valentine of the theft?” His eyes flickered back and forth between the prosecution and defense attorneys.

“Yes, your Honor,” said her attorney.

He shook his head and ran a hand through his graying hair. “I am confused.”

“As am I, sir.”

“I’d been about to say I was disinclined to permit you bail, but I have changed my mind. I allow that you have an exemplary record. You haven’t so much as a parking ticket.”

That was probably because she rarely drove. KJ gulped down the errant mental humor and paid attention.

“You didn’t run when you had the chance—and all the reason in the world.”

Even with all the motivation, she wouldn’t have gone anywhere with Brett.

“The problem lies in the value of the missing painting,” the judge continued. “Is this right, Mr. Prosecutor?” He tapped the paperwork in front of him. “One hundred million dollars?” He shook his head as if the amount was unfathomable.

Which it was.

“That’s right, your Honor,” KJ, her attorney and the county attorney said at the same time.

“That painting is irreplaceable,” the county attorney interjected.

“I am aware of that, Mr. Prosecutor.” He rapped his gavel on the desk making KJ jump. “It’s clear to me that something fishy is going on here. It’s also possible we’ve got the perpetrator in custody now.” He nodded to where she’d last seen Brett. “Therefore, I’m going to allow bail for Miss Valentine in the amount of one million dollars.”

“Your honor, I don’t have that kind of money!” KJ protested.

“You can see a bail bondsman. You only need to come up with ten percent.”

That, if she got the zeroes in the right place, would be a hundred thousand. It might as well be the million. She lifted her face, which suddenly weighed a hundred thousand pounds—to thank the judge, but he’d disappeared.

“You are free to go,” said her attorney. “Just sign some paperwork.”

They all made it sound so easy. Like that car commercial: sign then drive.

She could sign all she wanted. She didn’t own a house, and her car wasn’t worth anywhere near a hundred thousand dollars. The hard truth: she had nothing of value to offer as collateral. Faced with the thought of remaining in jail till the trial, KJ followed a female bailiff out of the room. They both stopped short at the sight of Theo Tuttle grinning like he’d won the lottery. KJ sincerely hoped he had.

She launched herself into his arms. “I came as soon as I could,” he whispered.

That’s when the bailiff jerked her away from him.

“I got bail. I don’t suppose you have a hundred thousand dollars hanging around gathering dust.”

“No. But I have some friends. I think I can get it together. Sit tight. It might take all night, but I’ll be back.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Westen moved from the kitchen chair some time later. She lit a fire and sat on the hearth with a cold cup of coffee and cuddled in an afghan handmade by her grandmother—and let the cerebral videos replay. All that time, she saw no reason to change the scenario. No doubt about it…there were two trailers. That’s what had bothered her about the videos at the police station. One trailer—the one Kendra Jean followed for seventeen hours—had a scrape near the top front roofline. The other trailer was as shiny as a newly minted penny.

Feeling only partially satisfied with the solution, she unfolded herself from the floor, stretched her aching back, and went to make more coffee. Hot and strong, that’s what she needed this time. She’d missed almost a week of racquetball and desperately wanted to get back to it, but that would have to wait. Important, and possibly quite valuable things waited this morning. Though she felt certain to have solved the mystery of the trailers and the thief, that didn’t guarantee a location for the painting. Westen felt sure she knew where it was and couldn’t wait to get started. Once she’d been awarded that enormous finder’s fee, she’d buy that penthouse and install her own racquetball court. The idea surprised her; normally Westen wasn’t a person prone to extravagance. But if she was going into the recovery business, she’d need the gym a lot closer, available for quickie workouts.

Westen showered, and was ready to leave by nine Tuesday morning. She had on a new coat and hat bought just days before Ben’s death. Till now she’d been unable to put it on without bursting into tears. They were camel hair in a deep cocoa brown. The hat was soft with a brim that folded up or down depending on the wearer’s mood. She tried different styles, checking her reflection in the tiny, mirrored thermometer near the back door, and decided on a brim-down style for today.

Smith hadn’t returned. Westen had the cell phone, so she couldn’t call—Wait. Westen located the paper Smith had signed when buying the snake. She dialed the number from it.

The phone had been disconnected. Westen was on her own. She phoned for a taxi to take her to the Hall of Records.

The cab let her out in front of the building. This visit promised to be a long one; coffee was a necessity. Westen headed for a shop next door, hoping she’d be let in the records building with it. As she stood in line deciding what to get, a familiar voice spoke from behind. Westen stepped out of her place and went back to join Sergeant Bartowski, clad in street clothes—new looking jeans and a peach color sweater—that failed to disguise the extra stuffing around her middle.

“Good morning, Sergeant. What happened with Kendra Jean’s bail yesterday? I hope the fact that she didn’t phone isn’t bad news. She
did
get bail, didn’t she?”

The sergeant nodded. “Yes, but it was set at a million. Even with the bail bondsman’s help, she didn’t have anything of collateral to put down. Love your hat, by the way.”

“Thanks. Where is Kendra Jean?”

“At the station. If she can’t make bail, they’ll transfer her to another facility this afternoon.”

“Could just anyone bail her out?”

“Yes, with the understanding that if she takes off and doesn’t show up for trial, that person loses the money.”

Westen stepped up to the counter and ordered her coffee. “What’ll you have, sergeant? It’s on me.”

Sergeant Bartowski ordered a coffee and pastry then thanked Westen. As they left the shop, she asked Westen what she was doing today. “I think you’re going to be putting out arrest warrants very very soon.”

The sergeant’s face lit up. “Plural? How soon?”

“Yes, plural. I’d guess it’ll be happening before noon tomorrow.”

“That long?”

“Yes, I have a few things to double check first.”

“So you know where the painting is?”

“Sort of. I have figured out how it was taken, and a working theory as to where it ended up.”

The sergeant pounded Westen on the back, making her almost drop the hot cup. “Where are you headed now?”

“The hall of records.”

“Is this related to the case?”

“Sure is.”

Just then it began to rain. The women said fast good-byes and raced in different directions. Westen hit the bottom step at a run, but stopped on the second stair and spun around, following the sergeant to the station.

She greeted the desk officer. “Can you tell me how to bail out Kendra Jean Valentine?”

He tilted his head as if deciding whether she was in possession of her faculties, then nodded. He reached under the counter, fumbled around and came up with a sheaf of papers. “Read these and fill them out.”

Westen found a place to sit and dug in, reading the rules in regards to bail posting. In the back of her mind, she heard Smith laughing and saying, “Would she do it for you?”