Free On the Hook by Cindy Davis

inspected it from every angle, then finally got up and stepped back, apparently satisfied there were no weapons of mass destruction under the silver domed cover or beneath the stainless steel shelf.
    Smith picked up a knife, sliced the dessert in half, sat on her bed and began eating. Westen took up the other half of the cheesecake before Smith got it in her head to have the whole thing.
    She pushed aside the paperwork to sit at the table. While she sipped coffee, she asked what had Smith so worried about intruders. “Do you know something I don’t? Or have you been watching too much television?”
    “It makes sense that the bad guy, or guys, would not want us here.”
    Westen sucked cheesecake from the fork and waved it at Smith. “More ’n likely they’re concentrating on the professional investigators. They don’t know even about us yet.”
    “They will tomorrow.”
    “Which makes us safe for tonight. Now, go pick up the hairdryer and put it back in the bathroom.”
    Smith did retrieve the hairdryer but stuffed it under her pillow, the cord coiled like a snake and dangling toward the carpet. Westen didn’t like the implications of the whole thing, but guessed she should be glad the unpredictable woman didn’t carry a gun inside her jammies.
    Over fortification with dessert, they chatted. Well, Westen attempted to chat, to find out where Smith was from, besides Delaware. What she did for hobbies besides play the tuba. What she did for work. Whether she’d ever been married. All to no avail. Smith wasn’t forthcoming with information. Giving up, Westen sat at the table and pored over KJ’s information. Soon Smith joined her.
    They discussed a visit to the curator Mr. Charles Fenwick first thing in the morning.
    “Do you think we should make an appointment?” Westen asked.
    “No way. I think it’s better to surprise him.”
    Probably a good idea. “Who do we see after that?”
    “I’m thinking the trucking company.” Smith dug into the pile of papers. “Hey, gimme the info about the drivers.”
    Westen located it in the envelope. Rather than hand it over—her way of fending off a direct order without provoking a verbal assault—she read from the bio KJ had provided, “Brad Kerrington has worked thirty years for Starfire Trucking. As a teen, he got in with a bad group and stole a car. He did time for GTA and when he got out went to work for Starfire. Been with them ever since. There is a personal note from KJ.
    “I didn’t really like him. He gave off a negative aura but since he came highly recommended, both by his boss and Charles Fenwick, I decided my feelings were based more on his personal appearance, which was sloppy. He clearly had no respect for protocol. I was told he was frequently late for work, unshaven and wearing a day-old uniform. Otherwise he had a perfect work and driving record.”
    “I wonder if her feelings were based on his skin color,” Smith said.
    “KJ and I grew up in Atlanta where there’re a lot of black people.”
    “How did she act toward them?”
    Westen grinned. “Honestly, I can’t recall her acting nice to anyone, except her clique of four or five girls.”
    “I bet they were all white.”
    “Yes, but I have no idea whether that was coincidental. Why, what are you thinking?”
    Smith shrugged.
    “That she might really be behind all this?”
    “Part of me thinks so. But, unless she’s playing us for total idiots, why would she go to the trouble and expense of sending us here?”
    Now it was Westen’s turn to shrug. “Covering her tracks? Hoping us novices screw things up?”
    Smith gave a sharp laugh. “If it’s the first—covering her tracks, she’d hire somebody who knew what they were doing.”
    “More likely she’d make sure to hire people who’d bungle things all to hell.”
    “Should we look into her background?”
    “I wouldn’t be surprised her bosses and the police are doing that as we speak. So, let’s get back to the drivers. Got any