Free On the Hook by Cindy Davis Page A

thoughts about them? What about the stuff KJ said about not liking that guy Kerrington?”
    Smith gave the idea some consideration. “So far KJ’s estimation of both of us was spot-on. She got us here knowing how to deal with each of us. Knowing you’d dig in your heels and refuse to go. Knowing I’d jump at the chance for the money—and she’d only just met me. Using that as a guide, I can assume her impression of Kerrington is right—there is something wrong with him.”
    “Let’s keep it in mind for when we meet him. Okay, what about the other driver?”
    Westen located his name on the page. “Knox Blake was born and raised in Chicago. He’s 47. Married with two sons, both in their teens. Blake worked for another company across town. He came to Starfire six months ago when his driving partner was killed in a car crash on the way home from one of their cross-country trips. Said he couldn’t stand to be there anymore. Blake has an exemplary driving record. Get this: his wife is pregnant.” Westen laughed. “With two sons ready to go out on their own, I bet that came as a surprise.”
    “I bet.”
    “Anyway, he and Kerrington have been partnered since he arrived there. They seem to get along well. Both are huge football fans. In my experience, stuff like that is a good bond.”
    “Which tells me the divide-and-conquer method won’t work,” Smith said.
    “No, but sex might.”
    Smith broke into laughter, rolling back onto the bed. “Which one of us is supposed to entice them?”
    Westen couldn’t picture either of them in that role. Smith sat up, still snickering. “What was KJ’s personal note about Blake?”
    “I was impressed with this man,” Westen read. “Surprised though, that as a driving partner he hasn’t been able to change Kerrington’s personal hygiene habits.” Westen put down the paper. “That’s all she wrote.”
    Smith stretched her arms high, yawned, and arched her back. The short nightie raised up and gave a peek at an abdomen that made Westen wonder if the hotel had a gym. She’d been unable to get on the racquetball court in two days. If she didn’t soon, her tummy would start looking like Smith’s.
    “I’m exhausted. Let’s turn in.” Smith stood and went to the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, “By the way, KJ called and said you hadn’t had time to pack anything. I got you some toiletries and a couple changes of clothes. I had to guess at your size. I hope everything fits.” She tossed the bags to her.
    “Thanks.”
    When Smith came out of the bathroom, Westen went in. She was so tired she didn’t do anything but brush her teeth. Checking the wardrobe could wait till morning. Besides, she dreaded what Smith might’ve chosen for her.
    She came out of the bathroom wearing the ridiculous nightgown and stood barefoot on the carpet. The drapes were still open, lending a gorgeous panoramic view of the Chicago skyline. Westen opened the sliding door and went onto the deck. The air was brisk; it raised goose bumps on her arms and whipped the gown around her thighs. The moon was high and bright yellow. An aura-like ring surrounded it. She searched her memory but couldn’t recall the meaning of it weather-wise. Hopefully it had nothing to do with doom and gloom; she had enough of that already. Westen went back inside.
    “Shut the drapes, okay?”
    Westen didn’t feel like getting into a stop ordering me around discussion. She closed them and went around to climb into bed. Smith had turned on the television to one of those CSI programs. Someone’s intestines flashed across the screen. Westen yanked the pillow over her head. “Good night,” she called.
    “Night.”
    “I hope we find that painting. I sure could use the recovery money.”
    “Me too. But what I’m more worried about is if we have to tell KJ we failed.”
    “Failure is not an option.” This Westen said in total seriousness.
    She did her best to ignore the slurpy sounds of the television