On the Hook

by Cindy Davis

  The sergeant smiled. She had nice teeth. “Not as evidence, but he’ll listen to my opinions. He really hates that boyfriend though.”

  “Did you know he went to Chicago?”

  “Kendra Jean tell you that?”

  “No. Ryan Ames—the one she hired to drive us around the city. Apparently Ryan was her one phone call.” Westen explained their conversation with him.

  “I have to get moving. Time to take Ms. Valentine to court.” She strode to the desk on stubby legs clad in the navy blue sergeant’s uniform. The chunky boots looked awkward on a woman.

  They pushed through the double glass doors, walked to a nearby coffee shop and sat on the same side of the booth to read the report. It pretty much jived with what KJ originally told them.

  “Okay, I guess we head to the museum.”

  Smith zipped her jacket. “Are we going to the arraignment?”

  Westen tossed a few bills on the table. “Gosh no. You didn’t want to, did you?”

  “Hell no. She’ll call if she needs bail.”

  “You got that right. How much of her money do we have left?”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea. But let’s not forget that if we use it for her bail we don’t have anything to use for investigating.”

  “I know.” Westen wouldn’t have a second thought about the money—it was KJ’s after all—if she thought KJ would appreciate the gesture beyond the steps of the courthouse.

  Back at the car, Smith slipped into the driver’s seat. “Do you know how to program the address of the museum into the GPS?”

  “Sure.” Westen dug out KJ’s paperwork, located the address, and got the GPS working.

  ****

  They pulled into the lot and parked near the back so they could scope out the scenery as they approached the building. It wasn’t as large as either the Chicago or Buffalo galleries. It was though, made of the same cinder block type construction. The windows were tall and narrow with vertical bars.

  “Who’s the guy we ask to see?” Smith asked.

  “Henderson McGee.”

  “Love that name.”

  “You’re being sarcastic, right?” Westen asked.

  “Right. It’s a stupid name.”

  “I think it’s got class. Think how dumb it would be if he clerked at a gas station or something.”

  They found Mr. McGee punching someone’s season pass at the front door. The tall white haired man smiled at the customer then welcomed him to the museum. Smith approached. Westen followed at a sedate distance letting her partner handle the social amenities. Perhaps it’d help her relate better to people if she made the first contacts.

  He smiled again, this one aimed at Smith. She must’ve identified herself because suddenly his hands began trembling. He kept tweaking his mustache and glancing over his shoulder at Westen. What was wrong with him?

  Smith gestured at her, then made introductions. The man turned nervous blue eyes on her. Westen shook his clammy hand. Why was he so edgy? Maybe it wasn’t guilt; maybe it was like that man in the Buffalo museum, upset because the painting had disappeared while under his watch. Or maybe he was going to rocket out the back door like the guy in Chicago.

  Close up, Westen could see how Henderson McGee might’ve been bullied by his wife. He seemed like the type who’d be afraid to say boo to a mouse.

  “How is Kendra Jean doing?” he asked. “I heard they’d arrested her.”

  “She’s anxious. She’s being arraigned”—Westen checked her watch—“in fifteen minutes. We’re hoping they let her have bail.”

  “Does she have the money? If not, maybe I can help out.”

  “We’ll let her know. I’m sure she’ll be grateful for the offer,” Westen said, though so far she hadn’t seen KJ grateful for anything.

  “I spoke to Ernest Falwell last night.” He lowered his voice. “Did you know he was the one who turned her in?”

  “Who is Ernest Falwell?” Smith said.

  “Wait,” said Westen, “that name sounds familiar.” They sat looking at her while she wracked her brain. She snapped her fingers. “I remember. When we called Doctor Batchelder the other night, he said Falwell is the reason the doctor had to leave his post at the museum.”

  “Makes sense,” Mr. McGee said, “since he’s the man who made the shipment possible. Though Kendra Jean set the ball in motion, it never would’ve come to fruition if Ernest hadn’t pushed the buttons for her. He’s on the hot seat at the board of directors over this.”

  “Does he really think she’s guilty?”

  “He’s had some time to think about it and now, he’s doubting the veracity of the phone call he received. Part of him doubted it at the time, but he didn’t want to take a chance she’d leave the country. Figured it was safer while she was physically in town.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Westen admitted. Though she doubted KJ would see it the same way.

  “So ladies, what can I do for you?”

  “Would you have some time to run us through the events of that night?”

  He didn’t protest that he’d already done all this with the other investigators and the police. He motioned for someone to take over for him, then led them to the far back of the building, to a cavernous warehouse. The room was fairly empty, just a few large crates at the far end and a pair of fork trucks parked near the tall garage door. The walls were the same brick as the rest of the building. The floor was polished cement.

  “So, the truck backed up to this door?”

  “Right.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Twelve minutes after seven. I confess to being in a dither because they were more than an hour late.”

  “Seems like you had a premonition something would go wrong.”

  Maybe more than that, Westen thought—maybe he already knew the painting was missing.

  “I feel like there’s more I could’ve done,” Mr. McGee said to Westen.

  “There wasn’t.”

  Smith wasn’t placating him; she wasn’t that sort of person. She was stating a fact. Unless he was involved in the theft, he couldn’t have done more.

  They had him rehash the events of the evening, which he did in vivid detail right down to including his feelings as he worried KJ might’ve absconded with the painting when they were an hour late arriving. “They said there was a traffic tie-up.”

  Westen wondered if she should check into it. Two scenarios were possible: the one where KJ and the truckers were the thieves, and the one where the thief got on the truck in traffic. Except, unless he’d planned the traffic jam, he would’ve had to follow KJ’s caravan waiting for an opening. Which didn’t make sense since it was an eight-hour trip from Buffalo.

  Henderson McGee pushed a button on the doorframe and the huge garage door rumbled upward. Smith and Westen stepped out on the loading platform. The museum’s driveway ended back here, though there was enough room to turn a big truck around. The property was fenced in tall black wrought iron with spikes at the top of each post.

  “I assume the truck came in from the main street.” Smith pointed to the right. “Drove down here, swung around and backed up to the dock.”

  “Right. The truckers unloaded the crate and left it here.” Mr. McGee strode about forty feet into the building, planted his feet and made a box-shaped move with his hands. “I stood here and thanked them for their hard work. Then I sent them to get some sleep.”

  “They were going back to Chicago in the morning?”

  “I assume so, though I don’t believe anyone specifically told me.”

  “So, who opened the crate?” Westen asked.

  “Me.”

  “Then you discovered the painting was gone. What happened then?”

  “We all stood shocked for several seconds, of course. All of us staring unbelieving into the crate. Most of us literally had our mouths hanging open.” He gave a nervous flick to his mustache. “I always thought that was a wives tale. Anyway, I think I was the
first to recover. I shouted for somebody to bring the truck back. I’m not sure what I thought would happen when the truck came back, it just seemed like the thing to do.”

  “Who went after it?” Smith asked.

  He thought a moment, his face screwed up in confusion. “I’m not sure. I think it was one of the guards who’d driven in with Kendra Jean.”

  “Did he run off on foot? What happened next?” Smith asked.

  “I don’t—Wait, he had a radio, a walkie-talkie, you know?”

  “Did the truck return right away?”

  “No.”

  “Did the men answer the radio call?”

  “No. Yes. Well, not at first. It was maybe a few seconds.”

  “What took so long?”

  “They said they’d gotten out to make sure they’d locked the back door. Said the radio was left on the dashboard.”

  “Since when does it take two people to check a latch?” Westen asked.

  More importantly, did that piece of information make any difference? The painting was already missing by that point.

  “How far had the tractor trailer gone from the building?” Smith asked.

  This information had been included in the police report but double-checking could either produce corroboration or it could generate new clues. Westen was hoping for new clues.

  “I don’t know. From the amount of time it took getting back, and taking into consideration them checking the doors, I’d say maybe a half-mile. You’ll have to ask them.”

  “Do you have any idea where the truck was going? Which motel?” Westen asked.

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Okay, thanks. We’re going for a walk. Will you be available later if we have more questions?”

  “Sure. Whatever I can do to help.”

  He professed a great desire to help but his finger was already on the button to shut the door. Maybe he was just cold…

  Smith and Westen strode up the slope of the driveway. Out on the street, cars whizzed past. Traffic was light. Westen took out the phone and dialed the sergeant’s number.

  The sergeant answered with, “Make it quick, I’m heading into court.”

  “You’re with Kendra Jean?” Westen asked.

  “Yes, just getting to security. What can I do for you?”

  “Did you requisition video tapes from the area surrounding the museum?”

  “State police did. Since state police from Vermont, New York, and New Hampshire are coordinating on the investigation, it took some time to get here. They arrived a few hours before I left for Chicago. I looked at them real quick. Didn’t learn much—there aren’t many video cameras on the highways, and the convoy stuck to the main routes.”

  “May we look?”

  “Sure. Come to the station after lunch.”

  “Tell KJ good luck for us.”

  “Will do.”

  By this time Smith and Westen were standing on the sidewalk. A lot of traffic passed at this time of day. They swung left and wandered away from the museum. Westen had an idea. She had Smith hold the folder while she searched for phone numbers. Then she dialed Brad Kerrington. He answered, the rumble of a large motor in the background. After identifying herself, Westen asked, “After you delivered the painting, what motel were you going to stay in? Did you have a reservation?”

  “No. We were going to find something. Lacking that, we could stay in the sleeper but we spend a lot of our time in the sleeper. Preferred the motel and a restaurant for a night, you know?”

  “Okay, thanks. Wait. Did you go left or right on the way out of the museum?”

  “Um, left, I think. Yes, left. That was the direction to a motel Knox had stayed in once before. Why?”

  “No reason in particular. Grasping straws. Then after the theft you went directly to the police station and filled out reports?”

  “Right. We ended up staying in a motel near the highway. No word on the painting yet?”

  “Not yet. Did you hear about Kendra Jean being arrested?”

  “What! No, hadn’t heard. I’m on the road, in Phoenix. So, they found the painting…that’s really good.”

  “They didn’t find it. Yet. I’ll keep you posted.” She put the phone away. “I was hoping that’d give us a direction to go.”

  “You should’ve asked how his silver lynx is doing.”

  “Didn’t think of it. I wonder what he would’ve said.” Westen gestured in the direction Kerrington had indicated. “Let’s walk that way for a while. The police report said they turned around in the parking lot of an electrical supply company. Let’s see if we can find it. Or the motel they were going to stay at.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “Probably none. It would be a guideline to how far they got from the museum.”

  They passed a café. Westen had a dickens of a time keeping Smith from going inside. “We’ll get lunch on the way back.”

  Beside the café was a post office, a hairdresser, and myriad small businesses. They strode past a day care with children giggling and chasing each other in a fenced yard. Beside the fenced yard, full of colorful slides and sand boxes was a long, abandoned building. One side of the building formed the farthest wall of the kids’ yard. Most all the second floor windows were broken. It appeared to be some sort of factory. Writing on the building had once been blue but now it was so faded it was impossible to make out.

  They located the electric supply company Kerrington mentioned four blocks further along. The driveway was surely big enough for the tractor and twenty-foot trailer to turn around in. Naturally, days later, there was no evidence the Starfire truck had been here. It was the single time in recent memory that Westen had wished for snow—usually she hated the cold, wet, slippery stuff—thinking they might be able to match up some tire tracks. Oh well, what did it matter anyway? The painting was already gone by the time the truck got to this point.

  But as they retraced their steps and entered the diner, the glimmer of an idea formed in her brain. The idea was too vague—wouldn’t form because of something else that was getting in the way—a second image. The combination of the two was causing an unsettled situation in her gut that was quite debilitating.

  Westen wanted nothing more than to sit in her living room and stare into the fireplace. The crackling of the flames always soothed her soul. She’d spent a lot of time on that hearth in the past months. If she could have a couple of hours, she was sure she could get the ideas together enough to show her where that painting had gone. Contrary to the opinions of most others, Westen was certain the Picasso was still in the US.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The sergeant led KJ through the security check and down a long corridor. They entered a room filled with criminals. Some wore leg restraints. Some wore orange jumpsuits. All were in handcuffs—including her. At least the sergeant had let her shower and change into clean clothes, which was more advantage than some of these guys seemed to have. The sergeant had clicked the handcuffs in the front so at least she could sit normally. And sit she did, in a corner as far from the lowlifes as she could get.

  Sergeant Bartowski said to “sit tight” and she’d be back when it was time.

  The sergeant looked like a man in her freshly pressed uniform and stiff cap, standing beside the other law officers. But she also looked every inch the professional. Who’d ever guess that she cooed over Chopin and cried like a baby when she watched “It’s a Wonderful Life”?

  After a long, friendly looking conversation with her cohorts, the sergeant left the room. She didn’t return for more than two hours. By then, KJ was cranky, tired of dodging the advances of the foul smelling man somebody had sat beside her, and she had to pee so bad she could taste it. She wondered where Theo was. Whether he had gotten back to Chicago—if he knew what had happened to her. She convinced herself he couldn’t know. He’d be here, wouldn’t he?

  She was allowed a trip to the ladies room where Sergeant Bartowski remained leaning against the sink, making su
re KJ didn’t try to squeeze between the bars on the window near the ceiling.

  “Hurry up,” Sergeant Bartowski called, “or they’ll put us at the end of the docket.”

  “I’m done.” KJ exited the stall and washed her hands as best as she could with the handcuffs in the way. They went back, this time entering the courtroom near the front. Great. Front and center. Everyone in the place was getting a firsthand glimpse of the woman accused of stealing the hundred million dollar painting. They could go screw themselves. She’d lived through more trying times than this—like the day her brother got hit by a car and spent a year in a full body cast. Talk about trying times! No insurance and daily trips to the hospital. It nearly broke the entire family apart. The Valentine family was made of strong stuff and if they could make it through that, she could get through this.

  As she settled onto the hard bench seat, KJ shot a quick glance around the side of the courtroom. God no. What were Sam and Limp Cliffy doing here? They sat side-by-side near the back of the room. Could this be any worse?

  Yes, if Brett were here too.

  Where was her attorney? Was that him? She’d only met the tall greasy-looking guy who couldn’t have been more than a month out of law school once. To his credit, he seemed knowledgeable about high-end thefts and the bail resulting from them. He’d assured her he’d get her out. What he’d meant was he’d convince the judge to set a bail. The fact that she had no means to pay it wasn’t his concern.

  The judge entered. He was tall and distinguished, and wearing a take-no-prisoners expression on his smooth skinned face.

  KJ’s case was introduced. Her baby-faced lawyer spoke first. “Your honor, Ms. Valentine is an upstanding member of the community. She’s got a spotless record and a solid job and reputation. She’s not a flight risk by any stretch of the imagination.” He asked for her to be released on personal recognizance.

  The county attorney for the prosecution shot to his feet as if there’d been dynamite in his chair. “Your honor, Miss Valentine was arrested in the process of fleeing.”

  “No she wasn’t, your honor. She was in Chicago”—he said Chicago as if nobody in their right mind would consider running there—“endeavoring to unravel this mess.”