by Cindy Davis
“I want to hear from you, Miss Valentine. Tell me what’s going on.”
The judge still wore that no-nonsense face. And she was still trembling, but it would be her only chance to win him over. KJ stood, handcuffs clinking like a pipe-organ, and looked the judge in the eye. Her grandfather had always said that was the best way to prove you were telling the truth. “Your honor. I didn’t take the painting. I did my best to ensure it was safe during transport to the museum. I have no idea how it got out of the trailer. It was there when we loaded in Buffalo.”
“And it wasn’t there when you arrived at the museum.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why are you being blamed?”
“Someone called the police and said they have evidence that I took it. I don’t know what that evidence could be because I didn’t do it.”
“Mr. Prosecutor. What have you got?”
“We have Miss Valentine’s computer where she, in detail, planned the robbery.”
“I did not!”
The judge raised his hand signaling for her to be quiet. Which she did, even before her lawyer jabbed her in the ribs.
“We’re not here to determine guilt or innocence,” the judge said. “A trial will do that. We’re here to decide if you warrant being released on bail. And I’m inclined to deny bail. I—”
A ruckus sounded at the back of the room. Everyone, including KJ, swung around to see what was happening. Two people were wrestling near the double doors. Punching and pulling hair, they toppled to the floor and disappeared from sight behind the last row of bench seats. A pair of guards raced toward the battling people—one of them leaping over the bar without opening the gate.
Something gripped the back of her shirt and yanked her feet right off the floor.
“Run, Kendra Jean. Run!” a voice called.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Westen toyed with her salad as two problem images strived for dominance in her mind. She really shouldn’t think of them as problems because she had no doubt they would combine to form the solution to the Picasso puzzle. Thankfully, nothing that happened this afternoon had dispelled her knowledge of the thief’s identity. She hadn’t shared the information with Smith—not because she was trying to be a showman, but because she wanted to percolate it in her mind. Westen would dearly love a few hours to sit in front of the fireplace to mull things over. Alone. A fire crackling while she sat on the hearth, legs crossed and surrounded by total silence—always helped with difficult decisions.
Right now, even if the luxury of the fire was unavailable, concentration on the puzzle would be unable to happen because of the words spoken by Phoebe Smith on their way into the diner twenty minutes ago: “Since I’m being evicted, I think I should move in with you.” Westen, too stunned to reply, continued playing with the same leaf of romaine.
Smith had started to open the ever-present manila folder, but stopped and shoved it to one side. Then she added, as if to make the idea more appealing: “That way we could save on expenses.”
This didn’t jive in Westen’s head because since Smith had been fired from her job—the one she wouldn’t talk about—how did she plan to pay her share? Smith hadn’t mentioned looking for another job. Which meant Westen would be responsible for all the bills.
Then memory returned; she had no job either.
Of course, if they found the painting, all problems, dilemmas, and proposals would be moot. The question was, if they got paid ten percent for recovering the Picasso, and if Smith had already moved in, would she move back out?
Yes, they got along well enough, but that was probably because each knew they could retreat to separate corners at a later date. She and Smith were total opposites, in every way imaginable.
“Are you going to answer me?” Smith asked.
Westen put down her fork, the lettuce leaf dangling from it. “What was the question?”
“I said, we should move in together.”
“That’s not a question.”
“Don’t, as you say, throw semantics at me. Can I move in or not?”
“Could I take some time to think about it? This is a big change for both of us.”
“You’re gonna say we don’t know each other good enough.”
“Well, we don’t.”
Smith laughed. “We totally know each other.”
“How do you figure that?”
“You take whatever you don’t like—that’ll be what I like.” Smith had that right. Not exactly something to base a live-in relationship on. “Remember, they say opposites attract.”
“Take it from me, they don’t.” Westen picked up her fork. “Can we talk about the case for a while?”
Smith sagged as if someone had stuck a pin in her. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”
“First off, KJ. Should we hurry to the courthouse and be there for the arraignment?”
Smith speared a French fry. “Nah.”
“Why not?”
“Would she do it for us?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean we have to act like her.”
“Okay, one subject off your mind. What’s next?” She popped the fry into her mouth.
Westen used the time it took to chew and swallow a piece of tomato to formulate the next question. At the last second, she shelved it and said, “Are you almost done? We have to get to the police station to look at those tapes.”
Smith wasn’t fooled by the change in subject but she downed the last of her soda and piled the silverware on the empty plate. She stood up. “Yup.” As they left the building she asked, “What do you expect to see on the tapes?”
“I don’t expect to see anything, but I’m hoping to see a person near the truck, a velvet bag flying off the roof, a piece of the frame lying in the road—I don’t know. I’m just desperate for clues. I want us to be the ones to find that painting. I want that money.”
“Ditto.”
Which made her wonder why, in the several days they’d been chasing clues, hadn’t they met any of the army of investigators on the case? Were they that far ahead? Couldn’t be; they hadn’t found the painting either.
Westen, as a small token of apology, handed Smith the keys and they climbed into the hybrid.
At the police station, instead of getting out, Smith passed the keys to Westen. “So, what’s the problem, why don’t you like me?”
“I do like you.” This was obviously related to the discussion about living together, and since Smith wasn’t about to drop the matter, she said, “I know you’re going to take this wrong, or as a cop-out, but listen before you say anything. The past months have been hell for me. I lost my husband and son. I have been on the verge of losing everything else. This case—and the ramifications of what’ll happen if we don’t find it—are torturing me. Yes, I have the money Grady paid for the shop, but the bills are going to eat up a bunch of it. The rest won’t last forever.” She could tell Smith wanted to talk but she forged on, “The idea of being responsible for another person, someone else’s meals, or even making regular dialogue, are too much for me to think about right at this moment. If you can be patient a while… If you need money, I’m sure I—”
“No need. I mean, I need cash, but I’ll live. I gotta apologize for being so selfish. You seem so strong and together that I forgot what you’ve been through. I can’t think how bad that must’ve been.”
Westen stopped Smith with a hand on her arm. “Don’t say any more, you’ll have me blubbering like an idiot. Let’s just go look at the videos. And if you’re of the persuasion, say a prayer we’ll find something.”
Hours later, Westen’s eyes were burning. Clip after clip ran through the player. On a notepad, she wrote the times the truck traveled through each area. Later, she’d compare the notes with GPS estimated times to see if everything jibed. If there was even a moment unaccounted for, it’d narrow down the places where the theft could’ve happened.
The last to go in the machine was an unlabeled video. Odd beca
use all the others had detailed markings as to the camera’s location and angle. A parking lot appeared on the screen. It looked familiar. They fast-forwarded through hours of scenes where cars of all sizes and shapes sped into the lot and zipped into parking spaces. The speedy scenes looked like Keystone Kop cars. Suddenly a familiar car appeared. Westen slowed the machine and saw a police cruiser.
“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.