Chapter 3 - The Man Behind Wesley Hall
By midnight, Iris Bennett had repeated the same sentence four times.
“You gave me the face.”
Each time, Detective Samuel Reed denied it.
Each time, his explanation changed.
At first, he claimed he had simply provided reference photographs.
Then he said Iris must have misunderstood.
Then he insisted that the witness had independently described the scar.
By the fourth denial, Iris stopped asking.
She knew what she remembered.
And she knew what she had drawn.
The studio had been evacuated.
Victor had been taken into custody by uniformed officers who arrived minutes after the confrontation.
Theodore's injured arm had been bandaged by paramedics.
Eleanor was unharmed, although she insisted on telling every officer within earshot that her son had nearly broken three pieces of furniture.
And Iris's purse had been recovered from the snowy awning.
The eight thousand dollars remained inside.
Untouched.
That should have made her feel relieved.
Instead, she felt empty.
At 12:17 a.m., Iris sat alone in an interview room at Chicago Police headquarters.
Her red dress was wrinkled.
Her roses had been left behind.
The flowers bothered her more than she wanted to admit.
Not because they were expensive.
Because she had bought them with hope.
And hope, she was discovering, could be humiliating when placed in the wrong hands.
The door opened.
A woman in a navy suit entered.
She was in her forties, with closely cropped brown hair and the kind of expression that suggested she had forgotten how to be intimidated.
“Miss Bennett. I'm Lieutenant Rebecca Hayes, Internal Affairs.”
Iris straightened.
“Internal Affairs?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Rebecca placed a folder on the table.
“Because Detective Reed is being temporarily reassigned while we review his involvement in the Archer Street investigation.”
Iris looked at the folder.
“Did Sam do something illegal?”
“We don't know yet.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because you identified a possible irregularity in a police case file. And because someone attempted an armed robbery involving you tonight.”
Iris nodded.
Rebecca sat down.
“I'm going to ask you something, and I need an honest answer.”
“Okay.”
“Have you ever shared confidential police information with someone outside the department?”
Iris thought of Wesley.
Her stomach twisted.
“I discussed my work generally with someone I met online.”
“Wesley Hall?”
“Yes.”
“Did you show him photographs, reports, or composite sketches?”
“No.”
“Did you access any archived cases at his request?”
“No.”
Rebecca studied her.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Because someone used your login credentials to attempt access to the Archer Street archive last Tuesday.”
Iris stared.
“What?”
“The access attempt failed because the file had been moved to restricted storage. But the system recorded your credentials.”
“I wasn't at work last Tuesday.”
“Where were you?”
“At my sister's house. Her daughter had a school play.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“About eighty parents and a very enthusiastic second-grade teacher.”
Rebecca almost smiled.
“Good.”
Iris leaned forward.
“Someone has my password?”
“Possibly. Or someone used an old authenticated session. We're investigating.”
Iris felt anger rise through the exhaustion.
“Why would somebody frame me?”
Rebecca paused.
“Because your name is connected to something they want.”
“What?”
“A missing witness.”
Iris went still.
“Natalie Brooks?”
Rebecca's expression sharpened.
“How do you know that name?”
“Theodore Vale told me.”
Rebecca leaned back.
“Of course he did.”
“You know her?”
“We know she's missing.”
“Do you think she's alive?”
Rebecca didn't answer immediately.
And Iris suddenly understood.
Nobody knew.
After another hour, she was allowed to leave.
She stepped outside headquarters at 1:38 a.m.
Snow drifted across the sidewalk.
Her phone showed seventeen missed calls.
Three from her sister.
Two from her elderly neighbor.
Twelve from a number she no longer wanted to see.
Wesley Hall.
Iris stared at the name.
Then opened the most recent message.
You embarrassed me tonight.
Her hands went cold.
A second message appeared.
You should have come alone.
She stopped walking.
The third message arrived immediately.
Tell Theodore Vale I still have something that belongs to his brother.
A black SUV pulled to the curb.
The passenger window lowered.
Theodore sat inside.
He wore a clean black coat, his injured arm resting against his side.
“Get in.”
Iris stared.
“Do you always appear dramatically in expensive cars?”
“Only on special occasions.”
“Valentine's Day is over.”
“Then we're celebrating being alive.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
Then she held up her phone.
“Wes just texted me.”
Theodore's expression changed.
“Show me.”
She approached the vehicle.
But didn't get inside.
He noticed.
“What's wrong?”
“I don't know you.”
“We've established that.”
“You could be involved in this.”
“I could.”
“You're not even going to deny it?”
“I'd rather you trust your instincts than believe whatever I say.”
That answer unsettled her more than a denial would have.
She looked toward the driver.
A middle-aged man sat behind the wheel.
His hands rested calmly on the steering wheel.
“The police told me not to discuss the case.”
“Then don't.”
“Your name is all over it.”
“Unfortunately.”
“And you have armed guards.”
“Yes.”
“You run businesses with connections to organized crime.”
Theodore looked at her.
“Some of those connections are mine. Some are inherited. Some are things I'm trying to end.”
Iris stared.
It wasn't the answer she expected.
“Are you asking me to pretend you're innocent?”
“No.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“To let my driver take you home.”
She looked at the snowy street.
At the empty sidewalk.
At the threatening messages glowing on her phone.
Finally, she opened the rear door.
“Just home.”
“Just home.”
The ride was quiet.
Theodore didn't try to charm her.
Didn't ask about Wesley.
Didn't tell her she was foolish.
He simply sat beside her while Chicago passed in streaks of amber light.
At one intersection, Iris looked at his injured arm.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“You should have had stitches.”
“I did.”
“How many?”
“Six.”
She frowned.
“Why are you acting like it's nothing?”
“Because I've had worse.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
“I wasn't trying to reassure you.”
Iris studied his profile.
“Why were you really at that studio?”
He turned toward her.
“Because my mother wanted to paint a picture of my father.”
Iris blinked.
“What?”
“She saw an advertisement for the Valentine's class. She said she wanted to paint the man she loved, even if he wasn't there anymore.”
Iris looked away.
Eleanor had seemed so cheerful.
She hadn't realized the older woman was grieving.
“My father died eight years ago,” Theodore said. “Every February, my mother finds another way to remember him.”
“And you went with her?”
“She asked me.”
“That's all?”
“That's all.”
Something warm moved unexpectedly through Iris.
A man who supposedly controlled half the Chicago waterfront had spent Valentine's Day accompanying his widowed mother to a painting class.
Then she remembered something.
“You said you knew Wesley wouldn't come.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Theodore watched the passing lights.
“Because my security team had been watching the people using that identity.”
“For how long?”
“Eleven days.”
Iris turned sharply.
“Eleven days?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn't warn me?”
His face tightened.
“We tried.”
“What do you mean?”
“An anonymous warning was sent to your work email. We also contacted Detective Reed.”
Iris felt her stomach sink.
She remembered the email.
Possible Romance Fraud.
It had arrived in her spam folder.
She had deleted it.
“Why didn't you contact me directly?”
“We didn't know whether you were involved voluntarily.”
She stared.
“You thought I was helping them?”
“We didn't know what we were looking at.”
Iris sat back.
The truth hurt.
But she understood it.
Theodore continued.
“When we learned they had arranged to meet you tonight, I asked someone to contact you. Before that happened, I discovered my mother had booked the same class.”
“Coincidence?”
“Perhaps. Or someone knew her schedule.”
Iris looked at him.
“Do you think someone wanted both of us there?”
“Yes.”
The vehicle stopped outside Iris's apartment building.
A modest brick structure on a quiet residential street.
Theodore looked toward the entrance.
“Do you live alone?”
“My upstairs neighbor's dachshund probably counts as family.”
“Iris.”
“Yes. I live alone.”
He nodded.
“I'd like to have someone watch the building tonight.”
“No.”
“Just until the police finish—”
“No.”
He stopped.
Iris turned fully toward him.
“I appreciate what you did. But you don't get to take over my life because your enemies decided to involve me.”
For a moment, Theodore simply stared.
Then he nodded.
“Fair.”
The driver looked surprised.
Iris noticed.
“Does he usually agree with people?”
“Rarely,” the driver admitted.
Theodore gave him a look.
Iris opened the door.
“Good night, Mr. Vale.”
“Theodore.”
“Good night, Theodore.”
She stepped onto the sidewalk.
Before she could close the door, he spoke again.
“Iris.”
She looked back.
“Don't answer Wesley's messages.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“And don't let anyone convince you that being kind made you weak.”
Her throat tightened.
She closed the door before he could see her eyes fill.
Upstairs, Iris locked her apartment.
Checked the windows.
Set her purse on the kitchen counter.
Then she called her sister and assured her that she was safe.
By 2:19 a.m., the apartment was quiet.
She washed her face.
Changed into sweatpants.
And finally opened the envelope containing the eight thousand dollars.
She counted the money.
One thousand.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Then something slipped from between the bills.
A small folded photograph.
Iris froze.
She had counted the money twice before leaving home.
There had been no photograph.
Someone had put it there after police recovered her purse.
Or before it was returned.
With trembling hands, she unfolded it.
The image showed a warehouse.
A man standing beside a black sedan.
A woman in a gray coat.
And Detective Samuel Reed.
The date printed in the corner was October 16.
One day before Daniel Porter disappeared.
May you like
On the back, someone had written five words.
HE WASN'T THE FIRST WITNESS.
