On the Hook (27 page)

“Woo, big curse word,” Smith chided.

Westen got out and went back in the police station. Smith caught her by the sleeve just inside the door. “What’d you do, change your mind about the bail money?”

“No. Didn’t we plan to talk to the police?” Westen stepped up to the main desk and asked to see Sergeant Bartowski.

“She’s not in yet this morning.”

“Yes, she is,” came from behind them.

The sergeant was coming in the door. “Long night,” she said to them. She stepped to the side of the room gesturing for them to follow.

“Tell us about it—how come you give prisoners such late night phone calls?” Smith asked.

The sergeant laughed. “You were her phone call?”

Westen nodded. “I don’t know what she expected us to do since she hadn’t been arraigned yet. Will they set a bail?” Smith asked.

“I can’t predict what the judge will do but since it’s her first offense and there’s no physical evidence—just hearsay—against her, probably they will. Then again, the painting
is
valued at a hundred million dollars.”

“Can you tell us what evidence you have against her?” Westen asked.

“Her boyfriend said she confessed—after sex—that she’d done it. He said she wouldn’t divulge where she stowed the painting because she was going to take the jail time and let the statute of limitations run out, then sell it when she got released. Apparently he found something on her computer that outlined the whole theft. We’ve confiscated the computer and have him in one of the interrogation rooms now.”

“Is that possible—to let the statute of limitations run out, then collect the painting?” Smith asked.

“Sure is.”

“How much credence do you put in the boyfriend’s allegations?” Westen asked.

“At first, I was sure she did it. Mind you, I haven’t seen the computer yet. But two things happened to change my mind. First was meeting with that stupid-ass boyfriend. I don’t like Kendra Jean at all, but God, what she saw in him I cannot fathom. He lied to me no less than three times in five minutes I spoke to him at her hotel. Secondly, I spent several not-entirely-unpleasant hours with Kendra Jean on the way back last night. Once you get past the
it’s all about me
—”

“
If
you can,” Smith said.

“Right. If you can, she’s not such a bad person. On top of that, she doesn’t act like a guilty person.”

“Not everyone does,” Smith said.

“I know but the way she talks, the way she acts—just doesn’t give off guilty vibes.”

“You can’t take that to the captain,” Westen said.

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.”