On the Hook

by Cindy Davis

  Smith thought she spotted someone following so they’d taken a circuitous route. Inside, they’d split up and gone to three different check-ins, all the while watching for suspicious-looking people. Trouble was, in an airport, lots of people acted suspicious.

  The thing worrying Westen was that, with Devon Blake in jail, who might be after them? Several names adorned her list from the owner and drivers at Starfire, to Charles Fenwick, the curator of the museum, but none—even Andrea—made viable suspects.

  What about Ryan? KJ had hired him. Clearly, he was there to report back. When the chips were down though, he’d shown a protective side. And a loyal one when he avoided KJ as diligently as they did. There was the unlikely possibility Ryan was the thief, or in cahoots with the thief, and had managed to cajole KJ into hiring him so he could watch the investigation’s progress. Be easy to do. Ryan was good looking. KJ was the type who thrived on ego-stroking. Westen doubted it’d be hard to get close to her.

  Ryan was privy to their every move. If they got near to finding the painting he could neutralize first one and then the other. Who’d know? Westen would bet, if she and Smith didn’t come back, Grady wouldn’t be able to remember KJ’s name to report to the police.

  As she mulled this over, a third option popped up. What if Ryan, or KJ, had taken the painting and someone had somehow stolen it from them? That’d give them a serious reason to watch Smith and Westen. A reason to want them to find it. They’d report solely to KJ. When the painting was located KJ could take possession on the pretense of turning it over to authorities, and conveniently arrange to have the painting stolen once again. Or disappear with it. Westen shook her head. The ridiculous conjectures were really muddying up her brain.

  Westen lurched out of her thoughts when she was thrown against the car door. Beside her, Smith groped for a handhold. All she came up with was Westen’s purse. She wrapped her fingers—still swollen and purple from pounding on the Blake kid—around the handle but as Ryan swung the vehicle up a right hand ramp to the highway, Smith toppled toward Westen.

  “Ryan,” Westen called.

  “If you’re going to tell me to slow down, forget it, I’m sick and tired of these guys trying to get the best of me.”

  “You saw somebody?” Smith asked.

  “No, but I’m not giving anybody a chance to get that close.”

  Once on the highway, the twisting and turning stopped. Westen’s brain stopped jostling the sides of her skull. “I was going to ask if you knew for sure Devon Blake had gotten into our room last night. I mean, he could’ve put a bomb under Smith’s bed or something.”

  “My bed?” Smith squeaked.

  “Of course. Why would he do anything to me, you’re the one who beat him up.”

  The SUV veered left then leveled out as it zoomed into the passing lane. “He didn’t,” Ryan said. “I let myself into your room after he ran away the first time. Made sure he hadn’t done anything. Honestly, I don’t think he got in. I’m ninety-nine percent sure I caught him at the door. Whether he planned to go in, I don’t know. I asked him at the cop station but he just grinned like an idiot. Hey, can one of you watch out the back? I have to keep an eye on this traffic.”

  Westen undid the seatbelt and turned to kneel on the seat. “Should I ask how you let yourself into our room?”

  “No. Hey, did either of you bring that hairdryer?”

  “No, why?” Westen replied the same time Smith said, “It belonged to the hotel.”

  “We’ll have to stop and buy one then.”

  “What on earth for? I don’t use one.”

  “Neither do I,” Westen said too.

  “Well,” Ryan continued, “in case those guys catch up to us…it looked like a handy, multi-use weapon.”

  Westen laughed. “I can see the headlines now. New Hampshire insurance investigator dries intruder to death.”

  “Come on, you guys, it was the only thing handy,” Smith said.

  “That’s what I said—a handy, multi-use weapon,” Ryan said. “As a matter of fact, I think we all should carry one. And maybe a lamp too. I wonder if I can get a shoulder holster for mine.”

  “The lamp or hairdryer?” Westen asked.

  Smith spent some time staring out the window. Westen couldn’t imagine their teasing had hit a sore spot—though a lot of things she’d assumed about the brusque woman were turning out false.

  “I’ve been thinking about something,” Smith said after a while. “About that Blake kid. Well, not about him…about the car following us yesterday morning. We thought it was Blake. But we led him to the airport. He was supposed to think we’d left town.”

  “He could’ve found out we didn’t.”

  “How? We’re registered at the hotel under KJ’s name. The museum is way on the other side of town from his place. It’s not likely he spotted us on the street.”

  “Which means there is someone else after us.” Westen was tempted to give up the vigil for the car behind them, and sit back in the seat. Her knees hurt, her back was stiff. There were at least fifty cars in the lanes behind them. Any one of them could be tailing them. Well, except for that van-load of kids singing. “How far is the hotel?”

  “One exit,” Ryan said, but Smith interrupted with, “I got us a different one. Just in case KJ is somehow involved.”

  Ryan took his eyes from the road long enough to shoot her a questioning glance. Smith shrugged. “We ran out of suspects.”

  “I assume you have me on your list?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Westen answered, unembarrassed, “but you keep moving down.”

  “How far down?”

  “Pretty low. You’ve saved our potatoes too many times to be a bad guy.”

  “Well, thank goodness for that. So, where is this new hotel? And did you get me a room too?”

  “It’s four blocks from the other.” Smith gave basic directions. “I paid for two rooms—one for us, one for you. They’re under my name.”

  “Your name?” Westen asked. “Do you think that was wise?”

  “No choice. They wanted a credit card for payment. I don’t think it’s a big deal. Smith’s a really common name. And I used my first initial.”

  “I guess it’s okay. It has to be.”

  As Ryan guided the SUV into the parking lot at the Courtyard Marriott, Westen spun around and sat down. Even though they were fairly sure nobody had followed, they hurried into the building.

  ****

  In their room, Smith and Westen both flopped on the beds.

  “I’m starving,” Westen said. “Want some room service?”

  “Sure. A big, fat cheddar burger wrapped in bacon.”

  Westen stifled a shiver and opened the menu on the coffee table. She didn’t bother asking if they should invite Ryan. She wanted nothing more than to wolf down something and dive under the comforter. A quick phone call assured them food would be on the way asap.

  “I’m gonna live in a place like that someday,” Smith said.

  Even though it’d been hours since they’d left the north shore community where Andy Elliott lived, Westen had no trouble understanding the comment. “So am I. But I will have somebody there to clean for me. I don’t want to try and keep up with something that size.”

  “Good idea. I hate housework.”

  Why wasn’t she surprised?

  “I think we should have a cook too.”

  We? “I like to cook but I agree. A man who can cook and clean. An Adonis with blond hair and blue eyes.”

  “And a body like David Beckham.”

  “No. Daniel Craig,” Westen said.

  Smith laughed. “He’d be okay, too. But I’d write into his contract that he has to grow his hair out.”

  “Did you know Beckham made #46 on Glamour mag’s top 100 Sexiest men?”

  “Now that’s trivia you can sink your teeth in. Where’d Mr. Craig come in?”

  “That’s what confuses me. Only 87.”

  “Prob’ly cuz of his hair
. See, I was right to want David.”

  “Let’s make a deal to hire whichever one applies for the job.”

  “Done deal.”

  In the morning, Ryan picked them up at the entrance. He was now driving a white four-door sedan. Westen and Smith shared a knowing smile about the new vehicle—he really wasn’t taking any chances—and climbed in. It was already loaded with bucket-size to-go cups of coffee and bags of pastry. The coffee was fixed exactly right for each of them.

  Smith gave him directions to the museum then read from the paperwork in KJ’s envelope. “We’re going to see a Doctor Russell Batchelder.” She was silent a minute reading. “Wow. This guy’s a modern-day Indiana Jones. Listen to this. He was born in Brighton England. Came to the US to attend the University of Wisconsin. Majored in archaeology, minored in geoarchaelogy—”

  “Geo-what?” Westen asked.

  “Geo-archaelogy. KJ obviously did some research. It says here: geoarchaelogy applies the techniques of geology, geomorphology, and Geographic Information Systems (GIS) to archaeological problems.”

  “Riiight.”

  Smith laughed. “I can barely pronounce the words, forget about knowing what they are.”

  “Let’s just say this guy is smaaart.”

  “He graduated with a PhD and almost immediately got a job at BU. He taught their Introduction to Archaeology, and Art and Architecture of Ancient America classes. He retired from there in ’01. He and his wife moved to Buffalo to head the museum.”

  “So, he’s married.”

  “More than fifty years. Got two sons and four grandsons. They all live in New England.”

  “What’s Kendra Jean’s personal comment about him?”

  Smith shuffled the pages and read from the bottom of one. “Dr. Batchelder is like my Grampa. He’s kind and sweet as a candy bar. He was as helpful as could be, and diligent. So diligent he stayed all night at the museum to make sure nothing happened to the painting.”

  “What a guy,” Ryan cooed.

  To Westen the good doctor’s dedication was suspect. She’d think more on it later. Right now, they were pulling up out front of the imposing white building.

  ****

  Inside, Smith and Westen asked a guard if they could see Doctor Batchelder. As the woman left in search of him, Westen couldn’t help recalling the curator from yesterday. She ached all over from their confrontation. She wished she’d brought a hairdryer…

  The guard returned and escorted them through branching hallways and unending corridors to the far back of the building. In a dark cavernous room that resembled a warehouse, the guard stopped forty feet from a large amount of activity. Two men in navy blue uniforms were watching a red fork truck zip up a pair of ramps. It disappeared into the bowels of the trailer. The rumbling sound of the lift truck intensified within the confines. The hum of the motor deepened and within seconds it reappeared, its pair of long forks wedged under a large wooden crate with the name ANDEAN MUSEUM stenciled on all sides.

  A tall, well-muscled man with white hair stood to one side. His charcoal gray suit hung loose on him. He stroked a skinny white mustache as the fork truck roared down the ramps and across the shiny cement floor. The man gestured for Smith and Westen to follow.

  Westen watched him, part of her expecting him to rabbit the way Mr. Fenwick had yesterday. But he didn’t do anything more than follow the slowly chugging machine to a room off another wing. The doctor gestured for Smith and Westen to wait. They stood near the far wall of a vast hallway, out of the way in case the fork truck driver whizzed by without looking for pedestrians. Neither woman spoke.

  Westen lost sight of Doctor Batchelder. She said a quick wish that there was no illusive back exit where he’d disappear and they’d spend two hours waiting here like bumps.

  Thankfully, he did come out. He stood to the side so the fork truck could make its way back the way it had come. “Good afternoon, ladies. I’m sorry I was unable to meet with you the other day. I was unavoidably detained in Lima. Next month our museum will host an exhibit on Peruvian antiquities. That’s what’s in the crate. Come. I’ll show you the room where it’ll be.” The doctor drew jangling keys from inside his breast pocket and locked the storeroom with two different keys, on two different chains.

  So…he thought they were the original investigators. Darned if she’d correct that faux pas.

  He walked to the left with an unhurried grace. As the corridor angled upwards, they passed an Egyptian exhibit that Westen wished she could’ve stopped to compare to the one in Chicago. They passed a Grecian room.

  “This display is ending this weekend. It was quite a draw. I’ll be sorry to see it go.”

  “You seem very busy here.”

  “If you have any experience with arts and historical items, you’ll find it’s important to keep exhibits new and original. It’s difficult enough to draw people, and this is how we do it.” With a grand flourish, he opened a room painted on all four walls with what Westen assumed were the Andes Mountains. Along the fields near the base, shepherds gathered herds of llamas. On the narrow, treacherous mountain paths, burros wended their way carrying woven baskets attached to the sides of their saddles.

  “Wow,” Smith said.

  “Aptly said,” Doctor Batchelder laughed. “Now, I assume you have some questions for me.”

  “I think some of them—about how the transfer process works—have already been answered. As you know, we’re trying to recover the Picasso you housed here the other day. We understand you were particularly diligent in taking care of it.”

  “We don’t do too many of that sort of job. Mostly we bring in exhibits, pack them and send them back.” The doctor’s face grew serious. His hands clenched near his waist and his fingers tapped a staccato beat against his lowest button.

  “May we see where you stored it?”

  “Certainly.” He shut the door. They fell into step beside him in the wide hallway. Another wing and another dark corridor, he opened a door and flicked on a switch. The room, about ten by ten, became bathed in fluorescent light. The room was empty.

  He stood wringing gnarled hands as Westen made her way carefully around the shiny cement floor. The room had no windows, no openings at all, as far as she could tell—without feeling the walls with her palms and tapping to listen for hollow spots. She nearly laughed. She’d seen people do that on television but had no idea if the method really worked.

  “So, the crate holding the Picasso was left here.” She stopped about dead center.

  “Yes, exactly where you’re standing.”

  Westen peered closely at the floor. Nothing whatsoever marred the pristine finish. Not a scrap of paper or a morsel of dirt.

  “You locked the door and…where did you spend the night?” Smith asked.

  The doctor laughed. “Right outside in the hallway. On a rollaway cot. Do you want to see it?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Smith moved toward the door. Westen and the doctor followed. He shut the door.

  “Did you know either of the drivers or guards who transported the painting?” Smith asked.

  “No. I was told they were all hired by the woman who arranged the exhibit.”

  “They were. I just wondered. They’ve done quite a number of similar transports so I thought conceivably you’d heard of them.”

  “They hadn’t done anything for us. Speaking of that nice insurance lady. Is she all right? Not taking too much flak for the theft?”

  “She is in some rather scalding water. That’s why we’re pushing so hard to find the Picasso,” Westen said. “Had you ever met Kendra Jean Valentine before all this?”

  “No. We spoke several times on the phone. It was nice finally meeting her in person.”

  “Well,” Smith said, “I think we’ve seen everything. Westen, you good?”

  She nodded. They thanked the doctor and exited the building. As they made their way down the many stone steps, Smith said, “That man’s as guilty as si
n. I wonder who was the first person to say th—”

  Westen couldn’t help chuckling, and then adding what she knew. “It’s got to do with religion and the guilt of committing a crime.”

  Smith’s, “Oh, shut up,” made them both laugh.

  “What makes you think he had anything to do with this?”

  “Didn’t you see how nervous he got when we started talking about the painting? I wouldn’t be surprised the Picasso is someplace in that building.”

  “How do you propose he took it from the truck? Remember, KJ saw it safely locked inside the Starfire truck.”

  Smith stopped on the bottom step. “I don’t know how he did it.” She punctuated the air with her fist. “But I’ll stake my budding investigator’s career that he is somehow involved.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Since the flight to New Hampshire didn’t leave till noon Saturday, they spent a couple of hours interviewing one of the guards KJ had hired. Theo Tuttle actually lived in Chicago but said he had another job here in Buffalo that’d last until the end of the week.

  As with the truck drivers, Smith and Westen couldn’t find a single thing that made him look guilty. He was much-sought in high-end transports—which was the only thing Westen found the least bit suspicious. What did he do above and beyond other guards that made him so necessary? But in the eleven years he’d been doing this, not a single item blemished his record. He was single, didn’t owe any money, had never had so much as a parking ticket. Another suspicious thing; didn’t everyone have a skeleton in their guard shack? The only quirky thing they learned from the interview—he liked Kendra Jean. If his information was to be believed, he’d gone out with her the other day. Westen’s head spun with the names of KJ’s men.

  The fact that he liked her was suspect.

  Smith and Westen spent the rest of the day lounging around the hotel, neither wanting to explore the city of Buffalo, New York. Nor did either of them want to chance seeing the person tailing them. Westen doubted anyone was there. She’d never seen anyone. Surely this morning, Smith had imagined the car following them. They’d watched carefully on the way to the museum and not seen a thing.