by Cindy Davis
“I’m exhausted. Let’s turn in.” Smith stood and went to the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, “By the way, KJ called and said you hadn’t had time to pack anything. I got you some toiletries and a couple changes of clothes. I had to guess at your size. I hope everything fits.” She tossed the bags to her.
“Thanks.”
When Smith came out of the bathroom, Westen went in. She was so tired she didn’t do anything but brush her teeth. Checking the wardrobe could wait till morning. Besides, she dreaded what Smith might’ve chosen for her.
She came out of the bathroom wearing the ridiculous nightgown and stood barefoot on the carpet. The drapes were still open, lending a gorgeous panoramic view of the Chicago skyline. Westen opened the sliding door and went onto the deck. The air was brisk; it raised goose bumps on her arms and whipped the gown around her thighs. The moon was high and bright yellow. An aura-like ring surrounded it. She searched her memory but couldn’t recall the meaning of it weather-wise. Hopefully it had nothing to do with doom and gloom; she had enough of that already. Westen went back inside.
“Shut the drapes, okay?”
Westen didn’t feel like getting into a stop ordering me around discussion. She closed them and went around to climb into bed. Smith had turned on the television to one of those CSI programs. Someone’s intestines flashed across the screen. Westen yanked the pillow over her head. “Good night,” she called.
“Night.”
“I hope we find that painting. I sure could use the recovery money.”
“Me too. But what I’m more worried about is if we have to tell KJ we failed.”
“Failure is not an option.” This Westen said in total seriousness.
She did her best to ignore the slurpy sounds of the television autopsy. She rarely watched TV, especially this type of show.
Westen woke at 3:15 from a nightmare where she was wearing a neon green jacket and tie-dyed electric blue sweatpants. A mob was chasing her down a sidewalk, begging to be ushered across eight lanes of sixty-mile-an-hour traffic to the beat of an oompah band—all of which would undoubtedly be easier than finding a Picasso that by now could be anywhere in the world.
Chapter Ten
At seven a.m. Wednesday morning, their driver Ryan let them out in front of Starfire Trucking. Westen was ready for investigating, sort of. Though Smith had indeed acquired two outfits of decent enough clothing for her, she’d neglected to include underwear. When faced with queries about this, Smith had laughed and said that since she didn’t wear any, it never dawned on her that Westen might.
So, feeling grubby in two-day-old underwear, Westen settled into the backseat cushion. Beside her, Smith was still waking up; she clutched a gargantuan to-go cup of coffee in one hand. The other held the envelope KJ had provided. They’d thought it best to keep the information close at hand. They’d divvied up the ten thousand dollars. Some had been left back in the hotel; the remainder was with each of them.
From KJ’s information, they knew Starfire was big as trucking companies went. Their fleet of four hundred trucks traveled the US and Mexico from stem to stern and back again. Since Westen was the only one coherent enough to form sentences this early, she approached the booted feet of a man reclining under the enormous cab of a tractor. She nudged the boots with a toe. The body slid out on one of those dollies. Soon, a dark, curly head popped into view.
“Could you point me to where I can find Brad Kerrington?”
The man’s left arm came up, a greasy index finger pointed toward a long building about a hundred feet away. “See the guy with the clipboard? He’s Ed, the foreman, he’ll know where Brad is.”
Westen thanked him and raced toward a paunchy man, probably in his thirties, who was already hurrying in the opposite direction. By the time Westen and Smith reached him, he stood in the middle of a group of men, the clipboard resting on his paunch, giving out assignments for the day.
He noticed the women standing there and gave a nod of his balding head that said he’d be through soon. Westen feared the truckers she sought were amongst this group and would be wheeling away to points unknown before she could get the information out of him.
He finished within five minutes and he turned toward them. His piercing gaze seemed to stab through to Westen’s two-day-old bra. She couldn’t stop her arms from folding around her breasts as he started toward them.
“I think he likes you,” Smith whispered. “Bet he asks you to dinner.”
“Argh, argh, yuk.”
He banged Westen on the back. “Are you all right?”
She managed a nod.
“Something caught in your throat?”
“A bug. I’m fine now.” She cleared her throat to prove her statement. It was all she could do not to flash Smith a glare, or bang her on the back.
“I’m Ed Youngblood. May I help you, ladies?” His voice held a smoker’s rasp.
“My name is Westen Hughes. This is Phoebe Smith. We’re looking for Brad Kerrington and Knox Blake.”
Mr. Youngblood’s brown eyes narrowed. “What for?” He’d lost his friendly tone. Westen assumed he wouldn’t be asking her two-day old bra out.
“We’re investigators from New Hampshire Property and Casualty.”
She didn’t think it possible, but his eyes narrowed further. Now they were just tiny slits, no wider than the slot in her paper shredder.
He shook the clipboard at her. “The investigators were here yesterday.” His tone inferred they must be impostors. “They spent the whole day disrupting schedules, checking trucks and generally making nuisances of themselves.”
“We are independents hired by Agent Valentine,” Westen said, not sure how, if at all, that information might help.
The clipboard stopped jabbing in her direction and he nodded. The way he nodded indicated he’d not only met KJ but hadn’t particularly liked her. Well, there was something they had in common. She’d play that card if she had to. For now, she said, “I promise we won’t disrupt anything. We only want to talk to the two drivers.”
“Ed! Ed, don’t take off,” a female voice shouted.
A tall woman in her early thirties hurried toward them. How did she run like that in heels? More important, why did high heels keep popping into her head? The woman’s black just-below-the-knee skirt swayed around her legs, threatening to take her down like a linebacker’s tackle. She wore a blue blouse Westen recognized from the Izod catalogue. Her shoulder-length brunette hair was perfectly coifed; her rose-colored fingernails matched her lipstick. The shoes were Mary Janes; the heels had to measure three inches. She’d spotted Smith and Westen but her attention was clearly on the foreman. He stepped away to talk to her.
“Well, that’s rude,” Westen noted.
“Snakes wouldn’t treat you like that.”
Westen stifled a sarcastic comment. “Wonder who she is.”
“KJ’s report didn’t mention any females.”
“What’s the owner’s name?”
Smith checked the notes. “Guy named Andy Elliott.”
“That’s sure not him,” Westen noted. “So, what do we do now?”
“We wait. We’re not leaving till we get satisfaction.”
“Satisfaction for what?” came the female voice.
The woman now stood behind Smith, red lips open in a curious expression.
“We were talking about the Rolling Stone’s song.” Smith snapped her fingers in a 1-2-3-4 beat and sang the popular lyrics.
This confused the woman, but she shook it off. “My foreman said you’re looking for Brad and Knox.”
“Foreman?” Now Westen was confused. Maybe she was a general manager or something.
“Yes. Ed Youngblood, the man you just spoke to.” Her expression grew wistful. “I’ll be sad to see him go.”
“Go?”
“He’s retiring next month. Bought a home and a gift shop in Bora Bora.”
“Where’s Bora Bora?” Smith asked.
“Tahiti,
” Westen answered. “It’s in French Polynesia in the South Pacific.”
Smith rolled her eyes. “This place must have a heckuva retirement plan.”
“I think it’s adequate,” the woman said. “Let me start over. My name is Andrea”—she pronounced it An-draya—“Elliott. The guys call me Andy. I own Starfire Trucking.”
Owner?
Westen introduced herself and Smith. This time she tried not to mention KJ.
Andy raised her voice to talk over the thunder of a pair of trucks going by, “I can’t believe the theft happened. Starfire has done at least a dozen high-end insurance transfers in the past year. We’ve never had a problem—not even a hint of trouble. It’s the reason we are chosen for the work.” She pushed a hand through her hair. Not a lock came out of place. “This is going to kill our reputation and double—or maybe triple—our insurance rates.”
“Not if we find the painting,” Smith said.
Andy gave a sharp nod. “You’re right. What can I do to help?”
“We understand there were investigators through the place yesterday,” Westen said, “so we’ll try not to duplicate too much of what they did. What can you tell us about the two men who drove the truck?”
“Both have exemplary records. Brad Kerrington’s been with the company since my grandfather owned it. Knox Blake’s newer. Been here, I think, about six months. Hard to remember everyone since the company got so big. He came highly recommended by one of my competitors: Wayne Trucking.”
“Boy it’s loud here.” Westen refrained from adding the word smelly. She tried not to breathe the diesel fumes hanging in the air like Scarlett O’Hara’s drapes. “How do you stand it?”
Andy shrugged. “My office is soundproofed.”
“Why did Knox get done at Wayne Trucking?” Smith asked even though they already knew the answer.
“His driving partner was killed in a fiery crash. Knox couldn’t face working there any longer.”
“What are he and Brad like personally?”
“You might already know, Brad was in trouble as a teen. Did some time for GTA. He came here directly out of prison. My grandfather was friends with his dad. You know how it is. Granddad did his father a favor and hired him. It paid off, though. Brad’s been a great employee. He and Knox are best of friends, in spite of their age differences.”
“Tell me about the trailer that was used,” Smith said.
“Standard twenty-footer. Usually they’re hauled as tandems.”
“Tandems?”
“Yes. Two trailers, one behind the other. Used for smaller loads. Easier to drop one and go on your way. Saves a lot of unloading. In this case, of course, we didn’t need two.”
“Is the trailer here? Can we see it?”
“The one you’re thinking of is in an impound lot in New Hampshire.”
“How did the guys get back here?”
“I didn’t have a load for them to pick up so they bobtailed back.”
“Bobtailed?” Smith asked.
“That’s where they just drive the tractor without a trailer attached.” She drew a ring of keys from her skirt pocket and led Smith and Westen around a corner of the building. “I can show you an identical trailer to the one they had, though.”
“We understand Mr. Blake and his wife are expecting a baby.”
Andy laughed. “Yes, that came a huge surprise.”
“I can imagine. Is Brad Kerrington married?” Westen asked, trying to keep up.
Andy waited till another truck roared past. “Yes. Sad situation though. His wife’s got pancreatic cancer. She’s in and out—mostly in—the hospital. I didn’t give him a load this morning. I thought he should spend some time with his wife. If she’s not there, he spends his time at T&J Bar downtown.”
Andy selected a key and slipped it into the padlock on a chain link fence. In seconds she had the gate swung open.
Smith tilted her head at Andy. “How would you know about him going to the bar?”
Andy’s smile widened. “I hang out there too. Not with Brad—nothing like that. I never mix business with pleasure. In case you’re going to ask, I’m the only one with a key to this area.”
“I assume the insurance companies have already examined the trailer.”
“They inspected the impounded trailer from end to end. And the tractor. But since the tractor wasn’t directly involved in the theft, it’s been released. It’s on the way to Atlanta as we speak.”
Andy approached a silver metal trailer with a giant star laced with yellow flames on both sides and the back. The words Starfire Trucking and a phone number were stenciled over it in black. Andy undid the back latch and swung open both doors so the entire trailer was visible from where they stood. The sound of the departing trucks had faded a bit when they came around the building but their roar echoed like a tunnel inside here.
“Is it okay if we go inside?” Smith asked.
“All yours.”
“Thanks,” Westen said.
“So, you’re not married either?” Smith asked.
“Never been. Probably never will be.”
“Because…” Westen said.
“Ninety-nine percent of my drivers are males. I can’t imagine finding a husband who wouldn’t imagine me in sexual situations with every one of my employees.” Andy shrugged. “I just don’t want the hassles. I like things to run smoothly. Speaking of that...I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Do you happen to have a tape measure?” Westen’s question garnered confused looks from both Smith and Andy. Rather than explain, she stepped on a bar that extended across the back and hauled herself inside.
“I’ll send one over. One favor though. Be sure to lock the gate when you’re done.” She whirled around on those impossibly tall heels and pointed two fingers. “See that fifty-three footer to the right of the building? The guy on the roof is Brad. And…for the record, I’d stake my reputation on his and Knox’s loyalty.”
“You are staking your reputation on it,” Smith muttered as Andy clip-clopped off toward the building.
Westen reached down to help Smith inside the tractor but Smith held back. “Why go inside? Isn’t it clear the painting’s not in there?”
“Of course. I’m not stupid, you know.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you were.”
At that moment, a man wearing the blue Starfire shirt ran up. He handed Smith a giant silver tape measure. “Just leave it with anyone when you go.”
“Thanks.”
This time Smith accepted Westen’s help into the trailer. Their footsteps echoed on the wood slatted floor. The inside was lined with wood to a height of about four feet, probably to prevent loads from coming too close and denting the metal outer wall.
Smith held one end of the tape measure and stood at the back end of the trailer while Westen walked to the front. “Length: nineteen feet, five inches.” They each took a few steps to the right and held the tape once again. Westen read, “Width: seven feet eight inches.” She allowed the tape measure to rewind.
“Seems straightforward enough,” Smith said. “What’s that?” She pointed to the front wall. Four and a half feet up was a small opening about eighteen inches square.
“I imagine it’s an emergency hatch if for some reason the driver can’t get in the back door.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s way too small to fit the painting through.” Smith turned in two complete circles. “KJ is right. There’s no way the painting could’ve gotten out of this thing.”
Chapter Eleven
KJ woke to the sun streaming through the pair of tall windows at 6:30. Five and sometimes six days a week, right at this moment, she’d be in her favorite restaurant having coffee, orange juice, two scrambled eggs, and an English muffin gobbed with blueberry jam. This morning she could make up for missed workouts by visiting the hotel gym. No way Brett would find her here.
An hour and a half later, she had exercised, showered, and dressed. The phone r
ang. KJ didn’t hesitate to answer. Today she felt empowered. There would be good news. The painting would be found.
The call was from Theo.
“Hey there. How was your flight?” she asked.
“Uneventful and boring. Same old same old. How’re things with you?”
“Okay. They haven’t arrested me.”
“I guess that’s good news. Do you really think they will?”
“There are a few people who’d party big-time if it happened.”
“We’ll have to talk about that sometime.”
Which meant he was planning on furthering their relationship. “When are you coming back to New Hampshire?”
“I have another job—sort of like the one I did with you. I was thinking I could see you on the weekend.”
“Sounds awesome.” She hoped she’d be around. They talked a few more minutes, until her call waiting said there was someone else trying to reach her. She said a reluctant good-bye to Theo, glad distance was keeping the relationship moving slowly, and happily surprised her excitement at hearing from him had kept her pacing the carpet.
The next call was Ryan.
“Hey.” She dropped into the cushioned chair near the right hand window. The sun was poking between the buildings. If she held her head a bit to the right, the light was so bright it left spots before her eyes. “How’re things in the Windy City?”
“You sound quite jaunty this morning. Dare I ask if the painting was found while we slept?”
“No. I have faith that Smith and Westen will find it today. Where are the illustrious ladies this morning?”
“I dropped them at the trucking company.”
“Did they tell you their itinerary?”
“They planned on talking to the drivers, the manager and owner.”
Good solid thinking. KJ wasn’t sure how talking to the manager or boss could help but it showed Smith and Westen were on the ball. She shook off a bit of disappointment that they weren’t calling her for instructions. “Anything else?”
