On the Hook

by Cindy Davis

  KJ let her thoughts run wild as the bartender strode to the jukebox at the back of the room. He dropped in a few coins and punched two buttons. A country ballad, the male singer crooning about the loss of a long-time love twanged into the room. Theo laughed. “Must be in the same boat as you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Didn’t you notice, he pushed the buttons without looking up the numbers of the song? I suspect he plays this one a lot.”

  “Sad.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No. When I’m through being angry with Brett, I might be. For now I’m happy being pissed off.”

  “Better than being pissed on.”

  “You got that right.” KJ leaned away so the bartender could set their meals on the table. KJ ordered another drink.

  Theo tried one of the onion rings right off. “You have any theories about the theft?”

  KJ couldn’t help spearing him with a look that outright wondered whether he’d been sent to gather information. He must’ve read the expression because he laughed.

  “That didn’t come out right. I can’t stop thinking about that painting. It’s gone but yet it couldn’t be.”

  “Those are exactly my thoughts lately. It can’t be but it is. I can’t for the life of me figure out what happened. I keep wracking my brain trying to figure if the painting I saw in the museum as we were getting ready to load it for the trip here, somehow—oh, it sounds dumb but what if the painting was never there in the first place? What if what I thought I saw wasn’t the painting but a replica…”

  “A replica that disappeared.” He snapped his fingers. “Like this and it’s gone from that crate.”

  “Told you it sounded stupid. It’s just that, on television when stuff like this happens, the detectives often think it happened one way and they spend most of the program investigating but right near the end of the show something happens and they find out it happened another way altogether.” She waved an onion ring at him. “I know, you’re going to say ‘that’s television’ but it’s also the way magicians work. While you’re busy watching them do something with their right hand, they’re tricking you with their left.”

  “I see what you’re thinking and it makes sense.”

  “Trouble is, I can’t think of a single way that painting could’ve gotten out of the trailer.”

  He lifted the top of the bun, checked for horseradish sauce, dolloped more on, then bit, chewed, swallowed, and washed it down with a swig of his drink. “If I was going to steal the painting, here’s what I’d do.” He set the dew-coated glass on the coaster. “I’d make sure it was never in the crate at all. Magicians, like you said, perform sleight of hand all the time. Maybe whoever stowed the painting in the container in the first place—”

  “It doesn’t matter whether it was a real Picasso or not. Don’t you see? I saw the painting in the velvet package in the crate in Buffalo. I SAW it—forgery or not, something was in there when I sealed it. When we opened the crate it wasn’t there. The crate was empty.”

  “Maybe we need to look at the theft in another way.”

  We? Did he say we? KJ smiled to let him know she caught the comment.

  “Do you have any ideas who might’ve taken it?”

  “All I know is it wasn’t me. And I resent the people who keep inferring I’m guilty.” Knowing he had to leave soon, she changed to a new topic. “So, where are you from originally?”

  “Anchorage.”

  KJ hadn’t ever met anyone from Alaska. “What brought you to the security business in Chicago?”

  “My parents work at the tuna canning factory. My Dad got me a security job there. I couldn’t stand the winters.”

  “Don’t think I could either.”

  “Long story short, I got a recommendation to the museum in Chicago. Someday I’ll tell you about it.”

  Someday. That meant he wanted to see her again. Right. Probably just wanted a quickie before he shucked his way out of town. Probably for the best. Brett was still a painful memory. Wouldn’t be wise to jump into a relationship again. She had a habit of doing that.

  The biggest surprise of the evening came when Theo announced he had to catch his flight. What! No offer to go to her place first? How refreshing.

  After that, KJ didn’t want him to leave. She considered going to sit with him at the airport. Brett’s awful insinuation kept poking her in the back of the head and the words wouldn’t come out. KJ thanked him for the company and said good-bye. Nothing was mentioned about seeing each other again. Oh well. Probably for the best.

  She sat a while longer, nursing her drink. Though they’d talked about the case, neither of them had come up with a single answer. The world was closing in, tighter and tighter, like a garrote. At times, she was literally unable to breathe. Like now. She held her head high, her neck totally straight so the air could flow more easily down her throat. It helped a little.

  Her apartment was six blocks away. She opted to walk—she usually walked and saved gas money. The air was cold and blustery and for a moment, KJ considered taking a cab. Maybe the wind could blow away some of her doldrums. In the end, she raised the collar on her jacket and plodded on.

  At home she laid the cell phone on the table and made herself a drink. The landline phone rang. The Caller ID said it was Brett. If she didn’t answer, he’d come over, so she punched the On button. “Hello.”

  “Are you calm now?”

  “I wasn’t un-calm earlier.”

  “You definitely were.”

  “Brett. What do you want?”

  “I thought I’d come over.”

  “What part of I don’t want to see you again did you have trouble understanding?”

  “There you go, getting riled again.”

  “You’ve got the definition of the word wrong. Riled means upset. I am not upset, I am stating a fact: I don’t want to see or hear from you again. I’m going to hang up now. Don’t come over because I’ve changed the locks and—”

  “Like hell you changed the locks. You never lift a finger to do anything.”

  KJ continued as if his words hadn’t cut to the bone, “I have 911 on speed dial.” She set the phone gently in the base—so there’d be no question that peace and serenity had flooded her entire being—and turned from the table, brushing her hands together in a job well done gesture.

  By now his phone would have shot through his living room window. He’d done that numerous times before. Usually she was the witness, not the source of his temper.

  KJ made sure her cell was within reach because one thing she knew as well as the microwave had just beeped…Brett would show up here. Then an idea popped into her head. She raced around gathering clothes and toiletries, jamming things in a suitcase without folding them. She snatched up the cell phone and work-related papers and crammed them in the briefcase. Jacket over her arms, she was out the door in six minutes. Since Brett lived twenty minutes away and had called from his home phone, she felt safe leaving through the front door.

  She walked two blocks and phoned for a cab. As another break from normal routine, KJ chose a hotel she’d never even been inside. How she’d pay when the credit card bill came, she would think about later. If they somehow pinned this on her, the worry would be off her mind—let the state of New Hampshire take care of things.

  KJ registered using her grandmother’s first name, Sonja. She asked the concierge to send up a bottle of pinot noir and bowl of chips and dip.

  By now, Smith and Westen must’ve landed in Chicago. She wondered how they’d liked Ryan Ames, the driver. Seemed like a good idea to spring for his services. She couldn’t imagine Smith or Westen, both small town girls, ignorant of city life, trying to get around the city. Taxicab fees would eat up a chunk of the ten thousand.

  Later, lying in the king-sized bed, cuddled under a most luxurious duvet, she finished the snack and felt physically ready for sleep—heaven knew she’d had very little lately. Was she ready mentally? Could her mind relax enough
to push all the crap away for a few hours? KJ sipped a second glass of wine and spent a moment wishing Theo hadn’t left town…

  She closed her eyes and snuggled deeper. And almost didn’t hear the phone ring. After five ring/vibrations, KJ flew out of the bed and snatched the cell phone from the table. No number showed in the Caller ID. That meant it wasn’t Smith, Westen, or Ryan Ames. It was probably Brett calling from outside her apartment door—his cell number never showed on the display. Surprisingly, she didn’t care one bit that he’d called.

  KJ cared so little, felt so unaffected by him, that she ignored the phone. It rang quite a long time. Then he finally gave up. Whether he called back during the night, she had no idea.

  Chapter Nine

  Westen tried to sit up. The motion was halted by a strong arm taking hold—she wished people would stop manhandling her—and hauling her into the room. The door shut with a thud. The light flicked on. There, wearing pink baby doll pajamas, hairdryer still in-hand, stood Phoebe Smith.

  “What the hell are you doing scaring me to death?”

  “What the hell are you doing sneaking into my room?”

  “Your room?” Westen shook the keycard in the air. “This is—”

  Realization hit them at the same time. They were sharing the room. So much for privacy, Westen thought, but great that she had a built-in person to bounce ideas against. She dropped on the nearest bed, which was probably hers since the other was messed up—Smith had been asleep. Which explained the unprovoked attack at the door.

  “Can you put the weapon down, please?”

  Smith disappeared into the bathroom. She returned without the hairdryer, and sat on the bed across from Westen.

  “What are you doing here?” Westen asked.

  “KJ called and asked. I got on a morning flight.”

  “Why didn’t she do that with me?”

  Smith laughed. “What did she do?”

  “She kidnapped me as I was leaving work, literally tossed me into a cab and hijacked me to the airport.”

  Smith got up and went to a small table near the window. A sheaf of information, identical to the one Westen had, was strewn across it. Smith picked up an already-open can of beer and drank. Westen cringed. She hated beer. Hated alcohol, except an occasional glass of wine with Ben after a hard day’s work.

  Smith returned to sit on the bed, her pajama top getting caught under her hip and pulling the neck too low. A naked breast popped out. Smith didn’t hurry putting it back in place.

  “I don’t get why KJ didn’t simply ask me to come here.”

  “Probably because of your past histories.”

  “Did she think I was so mean spirited that I’d hold a twenty-year old grudge?”

  Smith downed the rest of the beer and then rolled her eyes.

  Westen grinned. “She would’ve been right. No way I would’ve come willingly.”

  “This means a lot to her.”

  “I know. But considering her manner of operation, I’m not inclined to feel much sympathy.”

  A knock came on the door. Smith shot off the bed, raced into the bathroom and came out holding the hairdryer. Westen rose, grabbed money from her purse, and edged past the too-alert woman. “I ordered room service.”

  Smith ducked around the corner into the bathroom holding the hairdryer like a club.

  “Later I want you to tell me why you keep doing that.” Westen looked through the peephole and came green eye-to-brown eye. Was she wrong thinking the brown eye looked menacing? Could a person tell that from just one extreme close-up? The man backed away giving a glimpse of pimply skin and a crooked-toothed grin that only added to his menacing expression. He was wearing a shirt with the hotel’s name emblazoned on the left pocket, which really meant nothing. Anybody could get hold of a shirt without a lot of effort.

  “Room service.”

  Westen eased open the door. She wrapped her fingers around the handle of the wheeled cart, shoved the money into the man’s hand and shut the door in his face. Smith rushed from the bathroom. She knelt beside the cart, inspected it from every angle, then finally got up and stepped back, apparently satisfied there were no weapons of mass destruction under the silver domed cover or beneath the stainless steel shelf.

  Smith picked up a knife, sliced the dessert in half, sat on her bed and began eating. Westen took up the other half of the cheesecake before Smith got it in her head to have the whole thing.

  She pushed aside the paperwork to sit at the table. While she sipped coffee, she asked what had Smith so worried about intruders. “Do you know something I don’t? Or have you been watching too much television?”

  “It makes sense that the bad guy, or guys, would not want us here.”

  Westen sucked cheesecake from the fork and waved it at Smith. “More ’n likely they’re concentrating on the professional investigators. They don’t know even about us yet.”

  “They will tomorrow.”

  “Which makes us safe for tonight. Now, go pick up the hairdryer and put it back in the bathroom.”

  Smith did retrieve the hairdryer but stuffed it under her pillow, the cord coiled like a snake and dangling toward the carpet. Westen didn’t like the implications of the whole thing, but guessed she should be glad the unpredictable woman didn’t carry a gun inside her jammies.

  Over fortification with dessert, they chatted. Well, Westen attempted to chat, to find out where Smith was from, besides Delaware. What she did for hobbies besides play the tuba. What she did for work. Whether she’d ever been married. All to no avail. Smith wasn’t forthcoming with information. Giving up, Westen sat at the table and pored over KJ’s information. Soon Smith joined her.

  They discussed a visit to the curator Mr. Charles Fenwick first thing in the morning.

  “Do you think we should make an appointment?” Westen asked.

  “No way. I think it’s better to surprise him.”

  Probably a good idea. “Who do we see after that?”

  “I’m thinking the trucking company.” Smith dug into the pile of papers. “Hey, gimme the info about the drivers.”

  Westen located it in the envelope. Rather than hand it over—her way of fending off a direct order without provoking a verbal assault—she read from the bio KJ had provided, “Brad Kerrington has worked thirty years for Starfire Trucking. As a teen, he got in with a bad group and stole a car. He did time for GTA and when he got out went to work for Starfire. Been with them ever since. There is a personal note from KJ.

  “I didn’t really like him. He gave off a negative aura but since he came highly recommended, both by his boss and Charles Fenwick, I decided my feelings were based more on his personal appearance, which was sloppy. He clearly had no respect for protocol. I was told he was frequently late for work, unshaven and wearing a day-old uniform. Otherwise he had a perfect work and driving record.”

  “I wonder if her feelings were based on his skin color,” Smith said.

  “KJ and I grew up in Atlanta where there’re a lot of black people.”

  “How did she act toward them?”

  Westen grinned. “Honestly, I can’t recall her acting nice to anyone, except her clique of four or five girls.”

  “I bet they were all white.”

  “Yes, but I have no idea whether that was coincidental. Why, what are you thinking?”

  Smith shrugged.

  “That she might really be behind all this?”

  “Part of me thinks so. But, unless she’s playing us for total idiots, why would she go to the trouble and expense of sending us here?”

  Now it was Westen’s turn to shrug. “Covering her tracks? Hoping us novices screw things up?”

  Smith gave a sharp laugh. “If it’s the first—covering her tracks, she’d hire somebody who knew what they were doing.”

  “More likely she’d make sure to hire people who’d bungle things all to hell.”

  “Should we look into her background?”

  “I wouldn’t be sur
prised her bosses and the police are doing that as we speak. So, let’s get back to the drivers. Got any thoughts about them? What about the stuff KJ said about not liking that guy Kerrington?”

  Smith gave the idea some consideration. “So far KJ’s estimation of both of us was spot-on. She got us here knowing how to deal with each of us. Knowing you’d dig in your heels and refuse to go. Knowing I’d jump at the chance for the money—and she’d only just met me. Using that as a guide, I can assume her impression of Kerrington is right—there is something wrong with him.”

  “Let’s keep it in mind for when we meet him. Okay, what about the other driver?”

  Westen located his name on the page. “Knox Blake was born and raised in Chicago. He’s 47. Married with two sons, both in their teens. Blake worked for another company across town. He came to Starfire six months ago when his driving partner was killed in a car crash on the way home from one of their cross-country trips. Said he couldn’t stand to be there anymore. Blake has an exemplary driving record. Get this: his wife is pregnant.” Westen laughed. “With two sons ready to go out on their own, I bet that came as a surprise.”

  “I bet.”

  “Anyway, he and Kerrington have been partnered since he arrived there. They seem to get along well. Both are huge football fans. In my experience, stuff like that is a good bond.”

  “Which tells me the divide-and-conquer method won’t work,” Smith said.

  “No, but sex might.”

  Smith broke into laughter, rolling back onto the bed. “Which one of us is supposed to entice them?”

  Westen couldn’t picture either of them in that role. Smith sat up, still snickering. “What was KJ’s personal note about Blake?”

  “I was impressed with this man,” Westen read. “Surprised though, that as a driving partner he hasn’t been able to change Kerrington’s personal hygiene habits.” Westen put down the paper. “That’s all she wrote.”

  Smith stretched her arms high, yawned, and arched her back. The short nightie raised up and gave a peek at an abdomen that made Westen wonder if the hotel had a gym. She’d been unable to get on the racquetball court in two days. If she didn’t soon, her tummy would start looking like Smith’s.