On the Hook

by Cindy Davis

  “So, I guess congratulations are in order. When are you two getting married?” the sergeant asked.

  “I only just asked her last night. We haven’t set a date yet. I told her we should wait till she finds that painting so there’s no dark cloud hanging over our new life.”

  “Very honorable of you.”

  KJ couldn’t completely discern the tone the sergeant used. She thought it sounded sincere, which meant the policewoman believed the lying throw-rug who used to be her boyfriend. KJ’s stomach flipped over. She clutched both arms around her middle.

  “I have to scoot along now. You know how it is, places to go, people to see,” the sergeant said. “And you must have to get to work.”

  That’s right. Why wasn’t he at work? He should’ve been there hours ago.

  “Since Kendra Jean and I were up all night, I took the day off. The boss wasn’t too happy, but I have lots of time coming. Mind if I walk up with you?”

  “Yes. I do mind. I need you to go now.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll see Kendra Jean later for dinner anyway. Nice meeting up with you, Sergeant.”

  Sergeant Bartowski, to her credit, didn’t say good-bye to Brett. It raised her a point or two in KJ’s eyes. The sergeant continued on toward the desk, alert, it was clear, to where Brett Hartshorn had gone—which was not out of the building. He’d ducked behind a pillar at the other side of the lobby. This place was getting quite claustrophobic. KJ feared discovery just by the sheer number of potential witnesses.

  The sergeant got the attention of a male concierge. KJ picked out snatches of words that said she was indeed being sought by the police. The clerk shook his head, punched a few keys on the computer and shook his head again—no, Ms. Valentine had not checked out. Then he picked up the phone and waited. Shook his head a third time—Ms. Valentine didn’t seem to be in her room. The sergeant said something and when the clerk took up a key, KJ knew they were on their way upstairs—Ms. Valentine, we’re coming to get you.

  It wouldn’t be long before the news of KJ’s escape was public knowledge. A warrant would probably be issued in her name.

  No need to wait around any longer. All she had to do was clear this place without drawing Brett’s attention. KJ peered right. No Brett. A left-hand glance showed him leaning against the pole, watching the elevator into which the sergeant had just disappeared.

  KJ did as she’d done earlier and slid into a group of conference-goers on their way outdoors. Once on the sidewalk, she ducked inside a waiting cab. KJ had no sooner buckled the seatbelt—a good thing because the driver shot away from the curb so fast she almost got whiplash—when her cell rang. She recognized the number and answered with a delighted, “Raven, my darling computer guru, what news do you have for me?”

  “I have three names for you. First: Ernest Falwell.”

  “I don’t know much about him personally. He made it big in the stock market at quite a young age. I know he does a lot of charity work, particularly around Chicago. He’s big in the arts. Has quite an extensive collection of sculptures in his penthouse.”

  “I know him.” It was rumored he’d help facilitate the transfer of the Picasso.

  “He knows two people with whom you should be familiar: Charles Fenwick and Henderson McGee.”

  “Interesting, but not surprising. Both curators are well known worldwide.”

  “Apparently Falwell, along with Fenwick made it possible for you to bring it there.”

  “Again, interesting but I’m not sure how that can help get me out of this mess. I can’t imagine he had anything to do with stealing the painting.”

  “Doubtful, but I wanted to mention that your name came up in research to do with him. Second name: Sandra Elliott.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. Is she the collector you mentioned in California?” she asked.

  “No. I haven’t been able to get a line on that one yet. You can imagine how sensitive some of this information is. Hard to get, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, Raven. I’ll make it worth your while. So, nothing on this Elliott woman?”

  “Not yet. I’m working on it.”

  “You mentioned somebody spearheading a drive to get me arrested. Did you find out any names?”

  “That’s the third name: Brett Hartshorn.”

  The cab slid to a stop at the airport, throwing KJ forward in the seat. The phone tumbled to the floor. When she picked it up, the phone had shut off. She tried to redial but the LOW BATTERY light flashed.

  Brett? Why would he want her arrested?

  The answer was ridiculously simple. Because he had taken the painting. On television they always mention bedroom talk—that expulsion of needless information to prove to the other person that you trusted and loved them more than anything on earth. KJ had been guilty of it, big-time. She’d given him every single detail of the route, the manner of shipment, the number of people involved. God, she felt sick.

  This also explained the reason he accused her of taking the painting—to throw her off the track.

  What had turned the considerate, well-mannered boyfriend into a thief and a liar?

  She pounded one fist into the other. Brett hadn’t changed. He’d been that way from the beginning. Again, she’d been duped by a loving voice and a tender touch. Twice she’d married the idiots who did it. Twice she ended up paying huge alimonies. Twice—not a third time, thankfully. Though she was seriously attracted to Theo, and would see him again, she would not let her weakness get the best of her again.

  Of course, if Brett succeeded in his quest to prove her guilty, maybe he’d be the biggest winner of all.

  The next time KJ was aware of her surroundings, she was in a window seat, and the plane was in the air, headed west toward Philadelphia. The man in the seat next to her was rather ordinary looking, but he had the widest most sincere smile. And wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Part of her hoped he’d invite her for a drink. A strong drink. She could use one, or two, and didn’t like to drink alone. If he didn’t ask by the time they landed... This time her motives were different than usual. Being seen with a man would confuse the witnesses’ descriptions when asked about the single woman with the bright red hair.

  He was a data programmer from Dayton. Divorced with three teenagers. On his way back from his mom’s in upstate New York—she’d just had bypass surgery.

  KJ fabricated facts about herself. She was a high school English teacher from Bangor, Maine, never married, no kids, on vacation, heading out to spend a few days at the Mall of the Americas in Minnesota—she’d always wanted to see it—then on to Malibu for two and a half weeks of sun and surf. After they’d talked a half hour, KJ felt bad having lied. He seemed like a nice guy. Besides, it was just for a drink, and some talk unrelated to paintings and insurance and double-crossing, conniving...people.

  Then her more sensible side spoke up—just use him as a decoy, keep the objective in mind.

  The man woke her from a vicious nightmare where apparently she’d clobbered him in the face. “Time to fasten your seatbelt. We’re about to land.” He didn’t sound happy. Probably that face-punch spoiled her chance at a drink and decoy. Couldn’t hurt to ask anyway. The worst he could do is say “get the heck out of here you crazy lunatic.”

  She asked, “You in a hurry to get anyplace? Could I buy you a drink?” as they stepped off the plane.

  “Sure. That’d be nice. I’ve got to hit the men’s room. Then we can pick up our baggage.”

  How to explain she didn’t have any luggage for a three-week vacation? Of course, she would sheepishly confess to being a shop-a-holic. Buying all new stuff.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Saturday, Ryan stood beside yet another car—this one a red Chevy—for their journey to the airport for the flight to Manchester, New Hampshire. Well, Manchester with a little over an hour’s layover in Philly. If someone was following them, it was plenty of time for a confrontation. Westen’s suggestion that they forego the flight and drive
home along the same route as the tractor-trailer was met with evil-eyed glares.

  So, they got in line at the US Airways check-in, the three of them with their backs together, each facing in a different direction—which would mean nothing at all if the person tracking them was the good-looking male propped against Westen’s right side.

  “Ryan, tell me again why you’re going with us?”

  “I have some family outside Philly. When I heard you were laying over there, it seemed like a good time to go, so I told KJ about our tail and suggested I keep an eye on you. She agreed and got me a ticket too.”

  Westen didn’t bother questioning any further. She didn’t want Ryan suspicious that she was suspicious. If he was guilty of anything to do with the theft, it wouldn’t pay to put him on the alert.

  They landed just after 2:15 and hustled into the main building where they found a coffee shop to wait out the layover. Westen didn’t like flying, particularly when a crazed person might be tracking their every move, but after a half-cup of coffee she felt somewhat more relaxed. They hadn’t found the painting but she had a couple of working theories as to where it was—one of them was that the painting was right there in Chicago. She never believed in psychics or women’s intuition, but something told her she’d been very close to it more than once. It was only a theory though. She had no basis in fact. Yet.

  While Smith and Ryan chatted, Westen rose to get a refill of the vanilla-flavored coffee she so loved. The third in line, she waited, turning now and then to watch the crowd. That’s when she saw a familiar figure. That was Kendra Jean, wasn’t it? She wore a fedora-type hat with her hair tucked underneath. And dark sunglasses. But there was something about the way she walked—yes, it definitely was her.

  Westen watched out of the corner of one eye as KJ crossed the main concourse, high heels clicking like castanets. So, their feelings about being followed were true—they hadn’t been imagining it. But no way had they suspected her. Why was KJ following them at all? They’d been reporting regularly. Of course, hearing KJ’s multitude of frantic messages, it was clear they hadn’t kept in close enough contact.

  She must’ve been on their plane. Westen hadn’t checked the fellow passengers. No, strike that. She’d checked other passengers—male ones. They’d thought the person tailing them was a man.

  New question, maybe not related to the others. Who was that with KJ? Westen watched a minute to make sure they were indeed together and not simply two travelers who’d fallen into step beside each other. The man stood about six foot four, so it couldn’t be Brett Hartshorn. Possibly it was an FBI man or a cop, though from the nonchalant way he moved and spoke to her, that didn’t seem right. Maybe it was one of her bosses.

  Then again, maybe KJ’s appearance was coincidence. She’d had a death in the family or something, and it had brought her to Philadelphia. Westen didn’t believe that for a minute. They were being spied upon. But why Philly? The truck route hadn’t come anywhere near here; this was only an airplane layover.

  Something jostled her arm. Smith hissed in her ear, “What the heck’s she doing here?”

  “That’s what I was trying to figure out.”

  “There’s one way to find out.” Smith stepped away and started toward Kendra Jean, who dropped into one of the plastic bucket seats about twenty feet away. KJ’s eyes were on the door to the men’s bathroom, where the man had disappeared. Which canceled out the idea that he was a cop. When Smith was about fifty feet away, KJ spotted Ryan seated at their table. A second later, she jumped when Smith poked her in the arm.

  People stepped into her line of vision so she couldn’t see what was going on with KJ and Smith. She bought the coffee refill and couldn’t decide whether to go sit with Ryan, confront Kendra Jean or try and rescue Smith. The choice wasn’t hard to make. Smith and KJ were nearly shouting at each other. Once again, Smith seemed to be holding her own. She’d be fine left alone with KJ, so she opted to sit with Ryan.

  “Where’s Smith?” he asked.

  Westen pointed over his shoulder.

  His “What on earth?” let Westen know he hadn’t been privy to KJ’s travel plans.

  Suddenly KJ shot to her feet and ran from the table. She had turned left and was headed toward the main concourse by the time Smith moved.

  When KJ shouted over her shoulder, “I was not spying on you!” Westen and Ryan broke into laughter.

  On her way back to the table, Smith stopped for a coffee refill. KJ disappeared into the crowd. The man came out of the bathroom, gazed around in confusion a second, shrugged then walked the direction he’d originally been headed.

  Smith arrived back at the table. “Well, that was a scene, wasn’t it?”

  Ryan laughed. “If she wasn’t spying on us, what’s she doing here?”

  “I don’t know but she was with a guy,” Westen said.

  “What!” Smith and Ryan said at the same time.

  “A guy in a black bomber jacket carrying a blue duffle bag.”

  Smith laughed. “I bet she picked him up on the plane. When he came out of the men’s room, he looked for her but didn’t seem upset she’d gone.”

  “Any idea where she was going?” Ryan asked.

  “No, but it explains why she didn’t answer her phone. She didn’t want us to know where she was.”

  “We couldn’t tell where she was just by text message.”

  “No but we’d hear airport sounds—things like that.”

  “So, where was she headed?”

  “Buffalo.”

  “Why?”

  They discussed possible motives for KJ to follow them and didn’t come up with anything that sounded logical. They parted company with Ryan at the gate for their flight to New Hampshire.

  “I wonder what he’s really up to,” Smith noted.

  “I was thinking the same thing. Funny coincidence that both he and KJ are here at the same time.”

  “Right, but my point is, what are they doing in Philadelphia? Far as we know, this town has nothing to do with the missing painting.”

  ****

  Two very baffled people landed in Manchester NH just before three-thirty on Saturday afternoon. It was a peaceful, sunny though brisk, day. Being a smaller airport than Chicago Midway or Buffalo/Niagara, it was easier to see if anyone was following. Smith rented a car, their fourth—or was it fifth—in two days, a mini-van with a GPS unit, which would’ve been helpful the past couple of days. In New Hampshire, they mostly knew where they were going: Westen to her shop and Smith to her corn snake.

  When Smith dropped her at the shop, part of Westen wanted to climb into the hybrid and go home to mope. Seeing KJ in Philly had taken a lot out of her. Something was up and Westen didn’t like not knowing what it was. She wished she knew someone else at NH Property and Casualty whom she could ask. Besides that, and far worse, they hadn’t found the painting. Smith’s energy had been so magnetic she’d actually believed, for a time at least, that with down-home ingenuity and sensible logic, they’d be able to figure out, if not where it was, then at least, who’d taken it. They’d failed in both cases.

  Well, at least she had the pet shop. Over the past six months, she’d spent a lot of time regretting that she’d inherited it, but she had to admit to actually missing the place while she’d been gone. The two times she’d phoned Grady, he’d claimed to have everything under control. She’d squashed the thought that perhaps he’d only said it so she wouldn’t worry.

  Westen stepped inside inhaling the scent of fresh pine shavings, and a raucous greeting by the puppies in the window. Not that they recognized her; they reacted that way whenever anyone came in. When she left two days ago, there had been six pups; now there were three. Good job, Grady. Dogs were in high demand but it was a tough market. Some breeds only had a so-called shelf life of three or maybe four weeks.

  The wire kitten cage held four when she left, now there were seven, which meant someone had brought in a litter. Last year, Ben had instituted a donation pr
ogram whereby people could bring kittens and he would find them homes. He liked to think it kept people from dumping them in alleys. He only charged new owners a minimal amount that covered vet checks and shots. She patted the nearest one, a gray tiger that swatted her with a big double paw.

  Westen went in search of Grady, who’d left the front of the store empty. She hoped he’d remembered to lock the cash register. She found him standing in the office doorway, on the phone, his eyes riveted on her. He grinned a greeting. “Would you call back tomorrow, please?” he said to the caller. “I should be in a better position to discuss this further.”

  What had Grady gotten himself into—some kind of legal trouble? Did it have something to do with the talk he wanted to have before she left town? It sounded serious. Ominous even.

  Gosh, she wasn’t in the mood for trouble. Not Grady’s. Not the bill collectors. Of course! That’s who he was talking to. Till this minute, Westen hadn’t realized how exhausted she was. Apparently a wild goose chase after a hundred million dollar painting took a lot out of a person.

  Grady hung up the phone and came to give her a hug. “I hope your trip was profitable.”

  “No. Unfortunately. How is your wife doing?”

  “She’s fine. Don’t change the subject.”

  “All right. We didn’t find KJ’s painting. Have you heard from her since we left?”

  “Yes. Two nights ago, she called me at home in a panic because she’d been unable to reach you or the other woman, or some guy named Ryan.” He plucked her under the chin and teased, “What were you really doing while you were gone?” Grady didn’t wait for her biting reply. He dropped an arm around her shoulders and steered her into the main part of the shop. “So, who is this Ryan?”

  “He’s the guy KJ sent to…well, he said he was our driver but we were pretty sure he was sent to spy on us.”

  “If he was, why couldn’t she reach him? She sounded really worried.”

  “Probably thought we’d run off with the painting. So, what’s been going on around here?”