nobody followed us.” Smith got out too.
“You watch too much TV,” Westen said.
“Somebody has to be careful.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Surely you don’t think the thieves are waiting around for somebody to try and pin this on them? That painting is hundreds—maybe thousands—of miles away by now.”
Smith’s, “I think you’re wrong,” was practically hidden by the sound of Ryan’s laughter. She slammed the car door then quickly realized it was the wrong thing to do. They wanted their arrival to be a surprise.
Smith and Westen started up the walk side-by-side. Westen twisted the antique glass doorknob and they went in, footsteps thudding on the bare hardwood floor, stained by at least fifty years of shoes and boots. The place smelled like a combination of pine cleaner—which obviously hadn’t been used in the hallway—and vanilla scented candle. They climbed the steep stairs. Westen tried not to touch the railing. She hadn’t brought any hand sanitizer.
At the top, she prepared to knock, but the door was ajar. Westen glanced at Smith and read bad omens in her eyes. Was everything she’d been predicting about to come true? Was some dire fate waiting in that apartment? Westen swiped sweat from her palms onto the thighs of her slacks and nudged the door open with a knuckle. It was pretty dark inside. The only light seemed to come from a window near the street-side of the apartment.
“Mr. Blake?” Smith took charge. She called again a bit louder. A rustle, like that of newspaper, came from inside. Smith had braced a hand on the doorframe. Her knuckles whitened. She peered over her shoulder at Westen, probably wishing she had her hairdryer. The glasses were in place again so Westen couldn’t tell if she was frightened too. Whether she was or not, Smith took the initiative and said Blake’s name again, and then stepped into the apartment. No gunshot sounded. No screams, either from the inhabitants or from Phoebe Smith, so Westen followed.
In the shadows of the living room, a heavily pregnant woman stood up from an overstuffed chair.
“Sorry to intrude,” Smith said in a soft voice. “We called out and when you didn’t answer, got worried something was wrong.”
“I guess I fell asleep.” The woman bent and flicked on a pole lamp next to the chair. She straightened, laying one hand across her distended stomach. The light from a small watt bulb illuminated the room. Though shabby, it was clean. It was also the source of the food-based aromas in the hallway.
Smith introduced them. The woman smiled. “Smith and Westen? Like the gun maker? You’re joking, right?”
Westen couldn’t help being amused too. She was the first to mention the unique combination of their names. “You should make sure your apartment door is closed.”
“We’re looking for your husband,” Smith said. “His boss Andy sent us.”
Man, the lies were somersaulting out of Smith’s mouth. Perhaps Westen shouldn’t have wanted her to take charge after all.
“Knox’s er, not home. He went er…bowling.”
“Andy said he took you to the doctor.”
“He did, this morning. Then he went bowling.”
“She said he was a big football fan. She didn’t mention bowling.”
“Er, yes. At the bowling alley, there’s a game on the widescreen.”
“I love football,” Smith said. “What game is on this time of day?”
“I don’t know. A rerun I suppose.” She tilted her head, her blue eyes taking in first Smith then Westen. “Are you here about that trip Knox made to New Hampshire?”
“Yes,” Westen said.
“Awful thing that happened. Now you all won’t leave him alone about it. The police have been here. And some insurance guys. A man came from the museum, and now you.”
“What did they say to Knox?”
The woman’s eyes widened. She pushed long silky-looking hair behind her left shoulder. “The police were nice. I could tell they were just following up on things. The insurance guys
“You watch too much TV,” Westen said.
“Somebody has to be careful.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Surely you don’t think the thieves are waiting around for somebody to try and pin this on them? That painting is hundreds—maybe thousands—of miles away by now.”
Smith’s, “I think you’re wrong,” was practically hidden by the sound of Ryan’s laughter. She slammed the car door then quickly realized it was the wrong thing to do. They wanted their arrival to be a surprise.
Smith and Westen started up the walk side-by-side. Westen twisted the antique glass doorknob and they went in, footsteps thudding on the bare hardwood floor, stained by at least fifty years of shoes and boots. The place smelled like a combination of pine cleaner—which obviously hadn’t been used in the hallway—and vanilla scented candle. They climbed the steep stairs. Westen tried not to touch the railing. She hadn’t brought any hand sanitizer.
At the top, she prepared to knock, but the door was ajar. Westen glanced at Smith and read bad omens in her eyes. Was everything she’d been predicting about to come true? Was some dire fate waiting in that apartment? Westen swiped sweat from her palms onto the thighs of her slacks and nudged the door open with a knuckle. It was pretty dark inside. The only light seemed to come from a window near the street-side of the apartment.
“Mr. Blake?” Smith took charge. She called again a bit louder. A rustle, like that of newspaper, came from inside. Smith had braced a hand on the doorframe. Her knuckles whitened. She peered over her shoulder at Westen, probably wishing she had her hairdryer. The glasses were in place again so Westen couldn’t tell if she was frightened too. Whether she was or not, Smith took the initiative and said Blake’s name again, and then stepped into the apartment. No gunshot sounded. No screams, either from the inhabitants or from Phoebe Smith, so Westen followed.
In the shadows of the living room, a heavily pregnant woman stood up from an overstuffed chair.
“Sorry to intrude,” Smith said in a soft voice. “We called out and when you didn’t answer, got worried something was wrong.”
“I guess I fell asleep.” The woman bent and flicked on a pole lamp next to the chair. She straightened, laying one hand across her distended stomach. The light from a small watt bulb illuminated the room. Though shabby, it was clean. It was also the source of the food-based aromas in the hallway.
Smith introduced them. The woman smiled. “Smith and Westen? Like the gun maker? You’re joking, right?”
Westen couldn’t help being amused too. She was the first to mention the unique combination of their names. “You should make sure your apartment door is closed.”
“We’re looking for your husband,” Smith said. “His boss Andy sent us.”
Man, the lies were somersaulting out of Smith’s mouth. Perhaps Westen shouldn’t have wanted her to take charge after all.
“Knox’s er, not home. He went er…bowling.”
“Andy said he took you to the doctor.”
“He did, this morning. Then he went bowling.”
“She said he was a big football fan. She didn’t mention bowling.”
“Er, yes. At the bowling alley, there’s a game on the widescreen.”
“I love football,” Smith said. “What game is on this time of day?”
“I don’t know. A rerun I suppose.” She tilted her head, her blue eyes taking in first Smith then Westen. “Are you here about that trip Knox made to New Hampshire?”
“Yes,” Westen said.
“Awful thing that happened. Now you all won’t leave him alone about it. The police have been here. And some insurance guys. A man came from the museum, and now you.”
“What did they say to Knox?”
The woman’s eyes widened. She pushed long silky-looking hair behind her left shoulder. “The police were nice. I could tell they were just following up on things. The insurance guys
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