On the Hook (9 page)

“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 rang. 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?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You sure?”

“Like what?”

“Did they say anything about me?”

“About you? No.” Ryan laughed suddenly.

“Why are you laughing? They did say something, didn’t they?”

“That’s not what’s funny. Westen just climbed on the roof of a trailer.”

“What!”

“Just what I said. There’s a guy working on top and she climbed up to talk to him.” He laughed again.

“Now what’s happening?”

“She picked her wedgie.”

KJ couldn’t help chuckling. That didn’t sound like the prim and proper Westen Hughes that she knew. “What’s she doing now?”

“Nothing. Just talking.”

“Yeah, but what’s her demeanor?”

“Nothin’ special. She says something, he either answers or shrugs.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Look, I gotta go watch this, in case she falls off or something.”

“Call me later.”

“I’ll phone if there’s news.”

“Call anyway.”

KJ hung up and paced the room trying to decide how to best use her time. She could go examine the impounded trailer again. Brett wouldn’t expect to find her there. Wouldn’t have a clue to go there. She slipped on her jacket.

The phone rang again. KJ wrenched it from the table. Sam’s ID showed on the screen. “Yes, boss.”

“Where are you?”

She tried and failed to get some vibes from his tone. She also wasn’t anxious to answer the question so she countered with something brilliant, “Where are you?”

“I’m at your apartment. When you didn’t answer your phone this morning I got worried you’d hurt yourself and came over.”

“Why would I be hurt? You never came over before if I didn’t answer a call. I remember a time you filled my answering machine looking for me.”

“Kendra Jean.” She flinched at his tone. He only called her that when he wanted to get a reaction from her. “Where are you?”

“I went to a hotel.”

“Where? Why?”

“Because Brett was being a problem.” Sam Carter didn’t need to know any more than that.

“Told you he was no good,” he mumbled.

There was a sound of wood crashing, then a curse. What was going on there?

“Is he the one who broke down your door?” Sam asked.

“Probably. Is the place ransacked?” Visions of broken glassware and a smashed flat screen brought instantaneous trembling.

“Wait a second, I’ll check. No, it looks fine.”

“Can you make sure the door is shut when you leave, please?”

“It’s broken, but I think I can wedge it in place. You have a key if I get it locked, right?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“Whoa, what’s this?”

There was silence for a long while. She called Sam’s name several times to no avail. What had happened? Didn’t sound like he’d been hurt. It sounded more like curiosity. What could be curious in her apartment? She grinned—maybe somebody sneaked in and left the painting. When she finally shouted, “SAM!” he replied, “I found the burglar. He’s asleep in your bed.”