Youngblood—you heard he’s retiring?”
“Yeah. Thank goodness.”
“You don’t like him?”
Brad gave another shrug. “I suppose he’s okay if you don’t mind brown-nosers.”
“Brown-noser? Sorry, I’m not familiar with the term.” Westen thought of Smith, who’d be laughing right now because the queen of useless trivia didn’t know what a brown-noser was.
“A brown-noser is somebody who’s got his nose up the boss’s ass. Basically, a tattletale. Runs to management with rumors and every little thing everyone does wrong.”
“Your boss didn’t seem the type to listen to things like that.”
Another shrug. “I guess she does sometimes.”
“He ever get you in trouble?”
His, “Nah,” wasn’t too convincing.
Westen thanked him. He walked her to the edge and held her hand till her feet were stable on the rungs of the ladder.
From below, as she slipped into her shoes, she and Smith waved good-bye.
“Where to now?” she asked Smith and received a single word answer.
“Food.”
It sounded like a good idea. She was frozen to the bone after being in that wind. A hot cup of coffee and a bucket of fries would really hit the spot right now.
Ryan was waiting where they’d left him. Steam puffed from the tailpipe, which made Westen very happy. It meant the car was warm.
He leaped out, ran around and opened the back door. Westen jumped in. She shoved over to make room for Smith but she’d already taken the front seat.
“I like to ride shotgun,” she said.
Westen grinned. Smith knew she was annoyed at her refusal to go on the trailer roof and the close proximity of the backseat might’ve made an excuse necessary. Didn’t matter. A theory as to the demise of the Picasso spun like a tornado in her mind. A bit of alone-time might help it coagulate.
“Where to, ladies?” Ryan asked.
“Someplace where there’s hot food,” Westen replied.
Smith turned partway in the seat. “I think we should get something to go and head directly to Knox Blake’s house.”
“But I’m fr—”
“It’s for sure Brad got on the phone as soon as we left to warn his partner we were in town.”
“Sure. But what difference can that make?”
“If they’re guilty…”
“No way. How could they be? KJ was there the whole time. But even if they are, what’re they going to do? On the trip back from New Hampshire, they had plenty of time to get their so-called stories straight.”
Smith heaved a sigh and flung herself forward in the seat.
Westen relented. “Okay, to-go food it is.”
“I was thinking about Andy. Do you believe she never mixes business with pleasure?” Smith asked.
Funny topic, but if it put her in a calmer mood, that was fine. “I believed her, didn’t you?”
“In my experience, people who volunteer so much information generally are lying.”
No calmer mood; for some reason Smith was trying to pick an argument. How about this: “You volunteered about the tuba. Does that mean you really don’t play?” That ought to get her dander up.
Smith made a snorting sound in the back of her throat and jammed the seatbelt in place.
Ryan, sporting a lopsided smirk, pulled into the parking lot of a fast food restaurant. Westen was still mulling over the original question. Yes, she had believed Andy. Why would she lie? The topic had nothing to do with a stolen Picasso, did it? She leaned her head back and wrapped her arms around herself to keep some heat in. Well, not unless Andy had worked in conjunction with the driver—
No, if the drivers were involved, it would have to be both of them. No way one could steal the painting without the other knowing.
“Is everything all right?” Ryan called.
“Yes. Why?”
“You sounded like you were strangling,” Smith said over her shoulder.
“Just frustrated. Every time I think I’ve got a handle on this thing, something else pops into my head.”
“Want to run anything past me?” Ryan asked.
“No, thanks. Not yet.”
“Well,
“Yeah. Thank goodness.”
“You don’t like him?”
Brad gave another shrug. “I suppose he’s okay if you don’t mind brown-nosers.”
“Brown-noser? Sorry, I’m not familiar with the term.” Westen thought of Smith, who’d be laughing right now because the queen of useless trivia didn’t know what a brown-noser was.
“A brown-noser is somebody who’s got his nose up the boss’s ass. Basically, a tattletale. Runs to management with rumors and every little thing everyone does wrong.”
“Your boss didn’t seem the type to listen to things like that.”
Another shrug. “I guess she does sometimes.”
“He ever get you in trouble?”
His, “Nah,” wasn’t too convincing.
Westen thanked him. He walked her to the edge and held her hand till her feet were stable on the rungs of the ladder.
From below, as she slipped into her shoes, she and Smith waved good-bye.
“Where to now?” she asked Smith and received a single word answer.
“Food.”
It sounded like a good idea. She was frozen to the bone after being in that wind. A hot cup of coffee and a bucket of fries would really hit the spot right now.
Ryan was waiting where they’d left him. Steam puffed from the tailpipe, which made Westen very happy. It meant the car was warm.
He leaped out, ran around and opened the back door. Westen jumped in. She shoved over to make room for Smith but she’d already taken the front seat.
“I like to ride shotgun,” she said.
Westen grinned. Smith knew she was annoyed at her refusal to go on the trailer roof and the close proximity of the backseat might’ve made an excuse necessary. Didn’t matter. A theory as to the demise of the Picasso spun like a tornado in her mind. A bit of alone-time might help it coagulate.
“Where to, ladies?” Ryan asked.
“Someplace where there’s hot food,” Westen replied.
Smith turned partway in the seat. “I think we should get something to go and head directly to Knox Blake’s house.”
“But I’m fr—”
“It’s for sure Brad got on the phone as soon as we left to warn his partner we were in town.”
“Sure. But what difference can that make?”
“If they’re guilty…”
“No way. How could they be? KJ was there the whole time. But even if they are, what’re they going to do? On the trip back from New Hampshire, they had plenty of time to get their so-called stories straight.”
Smith heaved a sigh and flung herself forward in the seat.
Westen relented. “Okay, to-go food it is.”
“I was thinking about Andy. Do you believe she never mixes business with pleasure?” Smith asked.
Funny topic, but if it put her in a calmer mood, that was fine. “I believed her, didn’t you?”
“In my experience, people who volunteer so much information generally are lying.”
No calmer mood; for some reason Smith was trying to pick an argument. How about this: “You volunteered about the tuba. Does that mean you really don’t play?” That ought to get her dander up.
Smith made a snorting sound in the back of her throat and jammed the seatbelt in place.
Ryan, sporting a lopsided smirk, pulled into the parking lot of a fast food restaurant. Westen was still mulling over the original question. Yes, she had believed Andy. Why would she lie? The topic had nothing to do with a stolen Picasso, did it? She leaned her head back and wrapped her arms around herself to keep some heat in. Well, not unless Andy had worked in conjunction with the driver—
No, if the drivers were involved, it would have to be both of them. No way one could steal the painting without the other knowing.
“Is everything all right?” Ryan called.
“Yes. Why?”
“You sounded like you were strangling,” Smith said over her shoulder.
“Just frustrated. Every time I think I’ve got a handle on this thing, something else pops into my head.”
“Want to run anything past me?” Ryan asked.
“No, thanks. Not yet.”
“Well,
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