Chapter 5 - The Secret Joseph Vale Took to His Grave
By the time police reached Iris's apartment building, Amelia Vale was gone.
The hallway security camera had been disabled.
A service door on the ground floor had been forced open.
And a neighbor reported seeing two men carrying an unconscious woman toward a white van.
Iris gave her statement.
Again.
She described the voices.
The footsteps.
The threat.
She could not identify the men.
That failure frustrated her more than anything.
She was supposed to be good at recognizing faces.
But the people threatening her had learned how to stay invisible.
At 9:12 p.m., Lieutenant Hayes called Theodore Vale.
He arrived twenty minutes later.
Not with a convoy.
Not with a parade of armed men.
Just Anthony Russo driving a black sedan.
Theodore walked into Iris's apartment carrying a paper bag.
She stared at it.
“What's that?”
“Dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“You haven't eaten.”
“How would you know?”
“Lieutenant Hayes mentioned you refused the sandwiches at the station.”
Iris looked toward Rebecca, who stood near the kitchen.
Rebecca lifted one shoulder.
“They were terrible sandwiches.”
Despite herself, Iris smiled.
Theodore placed the bag on the table.
“Chicken soup. Bread. A slice of chocolate cake.”
Iris looked at him.
“Are you always this controlling?”
“Yes.”
“At least you're honest.”
“I'm working on the controlling part.”
Rebecca watched their exchange with an expression Iris couldn't interpret.
Then she cleared her throat.
“Mr. Vale, we need to discuss your sister-in-law.”
The smile disappeared from Theodore's face.
He sat across from Iris.
For the first time, he looked tired.
Truly tired.
“Amelia and Joseph married eleven years ago,” he began. “They were happy. Happier than anyone expected.”
“Why?”
“Because Joseph was the only member of our family who wanted nothing to do with the business.”
Iris listened.
“He studied accounting. He wanted to open a community development company. Affordable housing. Small businesses. Things that mattered.”
“What happened?”
“Three years ago, he discovered irregularities in our construction division.”
“Money laundering?”
Theodore nodded.
“Shell companies. False invoices. Inflated contracts.”
Rebecca leaned forward.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Do you expect us to believe that?”
“No. I expect you to investigate it.”
Rebecca studied him for a moment.
Then nodded.
“Continue.”
“Joseph found evidence that someone was diverting money through companies connected to Martin Mercer.”
Iris remembered the photograph.
“Your father's partner.”
“Former partner. My father trusted him. I never did.”
“Why?”
Theodore looked down at his hands.
“Because Martin always knew how to make something ugly look profitable.”
He paused.
“Joseph confronted him. Three weeks later, the warehouse burned.”
Rebecca made a note.
“Why didn't you report your suspicions?”
“I did.”
“To whom?”
“Detective Samuel Reed.”
Iris closed her eyes.
Of course.
Everything led back to Sam.
Theodore continued.
“Samuel told me the evidence had been destroyed. The fire was accidental. No witnesses had identified anyone.”
“But there was a witness,” Iris said.
“Yes.”
“And I drew a face.”
Theodore looked at her.
“I didn't know you existed until six months ago.”
She raised her head.
“What happened six months ago?”
“My mother received the fraudulent messages. We traced the accounts to a group that had been targeting older people and professionals with access to sensitive information.”
Rebecca frowned.
“What group?”
“We never confirmed the organizers.”
“Did you share what you found?”
“Yes.”
“With Detective Reed?”
Theodore nodded.
Rebecca's face hardened.
Iris stared at him.
“Why keep going to Sam?”
“Because he was assigned to the original case. I believed he had access to information we needed.”
“And he was feeding information to Mercer.”
“We're investigating that possibility,” Rebecca cautioned.
Theodore nodded.
But Iris could see he believed it.
And after everything she had witnessed, she was beginning to believe it too.
She took a deep breath.
“Amelia said Joseph left something.”
Theodore looked at her sharply.
“What exactly?”
“Something recorded.”
His expression changed.
“Recorded?”
“She said Martin Mercer had been looking for it.”
Theodore sat perfectly still.
Then he reached into his coat.
Rebecca immediately raised a hand.
“Slowly.”
He withdrew a small leather notebook.
Its cover was worn.
The pages inside were filled with numbers, dates, and names.
“Joseph gave me this two days before he died,” Theodore said.
Iris leaned forward.
“What is it?”
“I thought it was a list of suspicious transactions.”
“Wasn't it?”
“I don't know.”
He opened to a page marked with a blue ribbon.
A series of numbers filled the page.
Across the bottom, Joseph had written:
REMEMBER WHAT DAD ALWAYS SAID ABOUT DRAWINGS.
Iris frowned.
“Drawings?”
Theodore looked at her.
“My father loved art. He painted landscapes badly and insisted everyone admire them.”
“What did he say about drawings?”
Theodore was quiet.
Then his expression shifted.
“He used to say a good drawing tells the truth even when the artist doesn't know it.”
Iris looked down at the notebook.
Numbers.
Dates.
Names.
And a line about drawings.
Something bothered her.
“Did Joseph know you had a police sketch artist working on the warehouse fire?”
“Possibly.”
Iris studied the page.
Then noticed something unusual.
Three numbers were circled.
7.
23.
14.
Her stomach tightened.
“Wait.”
Rebecca looked at her.
“What?”
Iris pointed.
“Seven twenty-three.”
Theodore frowned.
“What?”
“The chair.”
He stared.
“What chair?”
“At the painting studio. You sat down at exactly 7:23.”
Theodore nodded slowly.
“I noticed the clock.”
“And Valentine's Day is February fourteenth.”
Rebecca looked between them.
“Seven. Twenty-three. Fourteen.”
Iris nodded.
“Those numbers are circled.”
Theodore stared at the notebook.
His face changed.
“Joseph loved puzzles.”
Iris's pulse quickened.
“Maybe this isn't a transaction list.”
“Then what is it?”
“A location.”
Rebecca frowned.
“Where?”
Iris looked at the notebook again.
Then remembered something from the studio website.
Twenty-two tables.
Two canvases per table.
One special painting displayed near the entrance.
A framed photograph of Chicago's riverfront.
The gallery description had mentioned that it was donated by a former local artist.
Joseph Vale.
Iris raised her head.
“The Painted Heart.”
Theodore stared.
“What about it?”
“Joseph donated a painting there.”
“When?”
“According to the studio website, three years ago.”
Theodore's expression became distant.
“He did.”
Iris leaned forward.
“Do you know which painting?”
“A city skyline.”
“Do you still have it?”
“No.”
“Where is it?”
Theodore looked at her.
“At the studio.”
Rebecca stood.
“I'll arrange for the painting to be collected.”
But Theodore wasn't listening.
His eyes had gone dark.
“What?” Iris asked.
He swallowed.
“Joseph painted that picture for Amelia.”
“Why give it away?”
“He didn't. Amelia donated it after the funeral.”
Iris stared.
“And three years later, she appeared at that same studio.”
Silence filled the room.
Then Rebecca's phone rang.
She answered.
Listened.
And went pale.
“What happened?” Iris asked.
Rebecca lowered the phone.
“We found a body near the river.”
Theodore stood.
“Amelia?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“No.”
“Who?”
She looked directly at Iris.
“Daniel Porter.”
May you like
The man whose photograph had been used to invent Wesley Hall.
And according to preliminary reports, he had been dead for less than twenty-four hours.
