On the Hook (5 page)

“So you say. You could’ve planned all this as a cover for taking the painting.”

KJ couldn’t stop a grin. “If that was the case, I’d choose something a lot easier to sell. A lot easier to get my hands on. A lot cheaper to set up. Did your research tell you how much money I had to fork out to make all this work? I paid the drivers. I paid the guards. I paid all transportation fees…out of my own pocket.”

The sergeant shrugged. “Gotta invest money to make money.”

“I am innocent.”

“You don’t act innocent.”

The sergeant held up a cell phone, punched two buttons and turned the phone so KJ could see the screen. A video of her jaunty walk along the sidewalk played for several seconds. “See where I’m coming from?”

She did. Should she protest? She peered up. Broad—maybe too broad for a female—nose, crinkles around bright blue eyes that belied the seriousness in the rest of her demeanor.

“Care to explain this?” She replayed the video. KJ didn’t watch.

“Nope.” The caffeine from the hot chocolate dissipated all at once. KJ wilted. “Look. I am innocent. I can’t prove it and you know it. The reason I’m feeling a little happier is that I just hired two people to help find the painting.”

Sergeant Bartowski waited for a line of cars to pass. When the noise faded, she said, “You mean the pet shop owner and Ms. Phoebe Smith?”

How did she know about them already?

“How are they going to find the Picasso? What are their qualifications?”

“They don’t have any. But be honest, what does a person need but eyes and a brain”—she quoted Smith—“to think of the right questions to ask? Besides, the current plan is for me to feed them the questions. Can’t miss.”

“If that was all you needed, anyone could do it.”

“Well, they’re going to prove anyone can. Now, unless I’m under arrest or something, I’m going home to get some sleep.”

“Don’t leave town.”

“You gave that order this morning. It’s the reason I had to hire the women. They’re going to be my eyes, ears, and legs.”

“So, why not hire somebody experienced?”

“Because I am out of damned money!” KJ slapped the briefcase against her thigh and marched away. She expected the sergeant to shout for her to come back, or click handcuffs on her wrists, but neither happened. She picked up her speed in case the sergeant changed her mind.

KJ had told the truth. All she wanted at this moment was a nap. A long one. Which wasn’t in the cards because she had to talk with her boss and somehow convince him to let her hire Smith and Westen. No reason he should have a problem. He was ultimately the one on the hook for the painting. Well, he and the heads of the other three insurance companies she’d talked into taking part in this fiasco. Head to head was always the best way to convince him of something, but the idea of meeting up with Limp Cliff was as daunting as walking outdoors in a typhoon.

While a cup of Earl Grey steeped in a large mug on her kitchen table, KJ phoned Sam Carter. Surprisingly, it hadn’t been hard to convince him to allow two more investigators into the mess she’d created.

“Now,” Sam said. “We need to discuss what happened between you and Cliff this morning.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. He touched me. I hit him with my briefcase. And knocked him down. I wish I knocked him out.”

“I’ve had about enough of the conflict between you two. You’ve got to find a way to work this out.”

“Maybe the police can help because telling Cliff to take a hike has no effect whatsoever.”

“Part of this is your fault, you know.”

“Why—because I went out with him…once? Look Sam, I tried getting along with him last time you gave the order. As soon as I was nice to him he started hounding me to go out with him again. I’m sorry but this is up to you and him to straighten out.”

“Are you going to press charges for what happened this morning?”

Quick as that, they arrived at the reason for his call. If she pressed charges, it would reflect poorly on the company. Both issues would hit the news in the same headline. “I haven’t had time to think about that. As you can imagine, it’s not at the top of my priority list. I have to go now.”

“Keep me posted. On everything.”

KJ hung up the phone with a sigh.

Hands snaked around her from behind. KJ jumped but managed to refrain from punching the intruder, realizing at the last moment that it was Brett.

“What did Sam want? I thought you discouraged him from calling you at home.”

“He wanted to hear about the trip,” she said, dismayed because she’d craved some alone-time. “What are you doing here?”

“I can’t come by and check on my girl? You’ve been gone nearly a week.” His hands untucked the blouse from her skirt. “I missed you.”

KJ wiggled out of his grasp and jammed the fabric back in place.

“What’s wrong? You are usually all over me when you get home.”

“You didn’t hear what happened?” Of course he hadn’t. The insurance companies were doing their darnedest to keep this disaster quiet. She went to make him some tea as she related every minute of the last twenty-four hours.

“Poor KJ.” He took the cup from her fingers, encouraged her out of the chair and into the bedroom. She lay face down on the bed. He climbed up and straddled her back, placing his hands on her shoulders, strong fingers kneading the tension of the past day. She worked her head back and forth as the tightness worked out.

Sleep had nearly claimed her when he spoke.

“What did you say?” she muttered.

“I said, so where is it?”

“Where is wh—” She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Even her sleep-fogged brain could figure out the creep believed she’d taken the painting. KJ shot off the bed so fast, he toppled sideways and landed on the floor. “Out!”

When he didn’t move except to sit up, she took hold of the front of his T-shirt and yanked. Out. Now.” He moved finally, gripping the bedspread for leverage. The quilted material was dragged to the floor, which fueled her anger even more. “OUT!”

“KJ, what’s gotten into you?”

She moved behind him, shoved him from the room then pointed into the hallway, in case the message needed clarifying. She shoved some more. “You’re getting out of my life. For good.”

Brett braced his hands on the doorframe. “I’ll leave—for now. Till you calm down. I know how you can get when you’re riled, and I don’t want the neighbors involved in this. I’ll be back later.”

“You don’t come back ever, you slime-bucket. I never ever
ever
want to see you again.” She raced through the living room gathering his jacket and hat, and whatever else looked like it belonged to him. She jammed it into his arms and propelled him into the wide, echoing hallway. He’d been right about one thing—the neighbors didn’t miss much of what was going on in this building.

He leaned close and hissed, “I will definitely be back. We’ll strike a deal, you and me. I want a cut—a big cut—from the sale of that painting. I haven’t put all this work into you for nothing. So, think long and hard and be prepared to talk some big numbers.”

Chapter Six

Westen was first to arrive at the diner Tuesday morning. She’d spent a sleepless night, not thinking about the painting as expected, but worrying over the pet shop’s books. The store was doing well, considering, but it was still thousands of dollars in the red.

A few minutes past four a.m., Westen figured out what it was. Well, not the why, but the how. Ben had been borrowing from one hand to pay things in the other. It looked like he’d been doing this for quite some time, more than a year before he died. They weren’t extravagant people; Westen couldn’t imagine why he needed so much money.

Things were a bit better in the month since she’d taken over, though not enough to keep the creditors at bay. She was well into a second cup of coffee before KJ arrived, long red hair glinting like rubies. The disconcerting thing was that she was smiling.

“You look like you have good news,” Westen said.

“I’ll wait till Smith—are you sure that’s what she wants to be called?”

“Her first name is Phoebe.”

“Oh. I guess I’d want to be called Smith too.”

“What’s that?” Smith arrived, surrounded by a cloud of bright colored nylon and carrying a cup the waitress had poured as she passed the counter. “You don’t like my name?”

“It’s not many women who want to be called by their surname.”

“You would if your name was Phoebe and everyone in the family kept making up stupid nicknames, like Feebs, Phobia, Phlebotomy…” She waved a hand to dismiss potentially worse ones.

“Prob’ly,” KJ said. “As I was telling Westen, my superior gave the go-ahead to put you on the job.”

“Are you sure?” Westen said. “I’d expect him to have a well-paid investigator within the company.”

“Oh, he does. All companies do. But he dislikes me because— Well, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s convinced I stole the painting and, if I know him, he’ll make sure I’m convicted.”

“That’s not very ethical,” Westen said.

Smith leaned forward over her cup. “What did you do to make him dislike you?”

“What makes you think I did something?”

“Dunno. You seem the type to piss people off.”

Westen kicked Smith under the table.

“Ouch!” She flashed Westen a scowl. “Well, she is. You told me yourself she—Ouch! Stopping kicking me.”

“Ladies.” KJ interrupted the squabble by shoving a pair of thick manila folders into their arms, side by side on the table. “This is copies of everything: itinerary, background checks for the guards and drivers—”

“You didn’t use the company’s regular drivers?” Westen asked.

“Well, yes, but I researched each one and requested the two I thought best qualified.” She tapped the folder. “There are also invoices for food and gas bought for the trip, contact names and numbers for everyone involved, including home numbers on the curators.”

“I thought you didn’t stop to eat.”

“We didn’t. We stocked coolers with what we needed.”

Definitely sounded like she’d done her research.

“I have one huge reservation,” Smith said. “I feel like I’m being thrown into the coliseum with a herd of lions.”

“A pride of lions,” Westen corrected, but as she said it, a new feeling of trepidation struck. Smith had been the one gung-ho to do this. What, in the last few minute’s discussion turned the tide? She let her mind flash over the conversation, but nothing about it raised red flags.

“What’s wrong?” asked KJ.

“Well, you told us the company has investigators. Why aren’t they investigating?”

“They are. As a matter of fact they’re already in Chicago.”

Westen finally saw Smith’s point. “So, why would you need us, besides the fact that one investigator dislikes you with a passion?”

“My bosses are desperate. Do you know what losing the painting could do to the company’s reputation? They said the more heads working on this, the better chance there was of the painting being recovered.”

Westen raised a hand and waved it at KJ. “Wait. Wait. Wait.” When she stopped talking, Westen said to Smith, “You realize that unless we find the painting, we don’t get paid. Not a cent.” She let the implications of the situation sink in. When Smith didn’t respond, she added, to KJ, “I don’t have the money for goose-chase plane flights, nor can I take time away from the shop.”

Smith gave a solemn nod and moved out of the booth. Westen followed and they left the diner together, as they had the evening before.

“It was a good idea while it lasted,” Smith said.

“I knew it was too good to be true.” Without any pay, Westen couldn’t chance this. “It’s been nice knowing you. Keep me posted how the snake does for you.”

She turned right on the sidewalk, Smith went left and they walked out of each other’s lives.

Back at the pet shop, there was only one customer and Grady was tending to him. She went to her office and flopped in the padded chair. Over the years, the cushion had conformed to her husband’s backside. When she’d first taken over the shop after Ben’s death, she’d felt safe and protected in the chair. Right now, the last thing she wanted was to feel close to Ben. Right now, she was really pissed with him for putting her in this financial apocalypse. Westen leaped from the chair. It crashed against the wall.

“Something wrong, boss?” Grady stood in the door as if embarrassed to catch her in a moment of emotion.

“No. Er, no. Did you need something?”

“Yeah. I wondered if you’d have a few minutes to talk after we close tonight.”

“Um…sure. Anything wrong?”

“Yes, I—” The jangle of the bell above the door interrupted. “I’ll take care of it. We’ll talk later.”

Once the office door squeaked shut behind him, she sagged against the edge of the desk. What could he want to talk about that required privacy? It couldn’t be good. Probably his wife was pregnant again and he was quitting to find another job with better pay. She couldn’t blame him. But right now Westen couldn’t offer him a raise. Nor could Hughes Pets afford to lose him.

She flattened her palms on the desk. How was it possible for so many things to go wrong for one person at the same time? She must’ve done something really awful in a past life.

****

Closing time came all too soon. Westen returned from making the bank deposit—a tiny bit healthier one than yesterday, which should be a reason for an optimistic outlook. But she couldn’t stop thinking about that painting—and the number of zeroes in the recovery money. She’d been so wrapped up in ideas as to where the painting might be that she forgot about Grady. He stood waiting near the puppy cage, his hand rubbing the tummy of a longhaired male dachshund that looked enraptured. Typical male.

Westen entered the building, locked the door, and shut out the lights. In the light given by the bank of aquariums, she and Grady walked to the back room, Westen bending to straighten a stack of dog food, he stooping to pluck a feather from the carpet.

She leaned against the front of her desk, arms crossed. Grady shoved his hands in his pants pockets. Then he removed them and crossed his arms too. Then he uncrossed them and let them dangle loose as if they were too much to worry about.