Chapter 6 - The Painting With Two Faces
Daniel Porter had not died four months earlier.
He had been alive throughout the three months Iris believed she was talking to Wesley Hall.
That revelation changed everything.
The missing construction inspector had not merely been a stolen photograph.
He had been part of something.
Or a prisoner of it.
Police recovered his body beneath an abandoned loading bridge on the Chicago River.
His identification was still in his pocket.
His hands showed signs of restraint.
And tucked inside his coat was a hotel key card.
The hotel was registered to Mercer Strategic Solutions.
Iris learned those details two days later, when Rebecca Hayes called her back to headquarters.
The lieutenant looked exhausted.
“We have reason to believe Daniel was being forced to cooperate with a fraud operation.”
Iris stared.
“Forced?”
“His family received threats. He had access to inspection records related to the Archer Street warehouse. Mercer wanted those records.”
“And the romance scam?”
“Possibly a way to approach you without exposing the real investigation.”
Iris looked down.
“Wes knew things about me.”
Rebecca nodded.
“We're examining whether Daniel wrote any of the messages himself.”
Iris swallowed.
The distinction mattered.
It shouldn't have.
But it did.
She wanted to know whether every gentle word had been written by a predator.
Or whether somewhere behind the false identity, another frightened person had been trying to survive.
Rebecca studied her.
“You're allowed to be upset.”
“I know.”
“You don't have to turn everything into evidence.”
Iris gave a humorless laugh.
“That's usually my job.”
“Not today.”
For a moment, the two women sat in silence.
Then Rebecca slid a photograph across the table.
It showed the painting from The Painted Heart.
Chicago's riverfront at dusk.
A bridge.
Warehouses.
The orange glow of streetlights reflected on dark water.
A small silhouette stood near the edge.
Iris leaned closer.
“That's Joseph's painting?”
Rebecca nodded.
“The studio owner gave us permission to examine it.”
“Anything unusual?”
“The frame had been opened recently.”
Iris looked up.
“Recently?”
“Within the past few weeks, according to a restoration specialist.”
“Was something removed?”
“We don't know.”
Iris studied the photograph again.
Then noticed the silhouette.
“Can you enlarge that?”
Rebecca turned the image on a tablet.
The tiny figure became clearer.
A man.
Standing beside the river.
His face was barely suggested by a few brushstrokes.
But there was something strange about the background.
A vertical reflection appeared where no building should have been.
Iris frowned.
“That's wrong.”
Rebecca leaned closer.
“What?”
“The skyline.”
“What about it?”
“The reflection doesn't match the buildings.”
Rebecca studied the image.
Iris pointed.
“The bridge railing is reflected twice. And that warehouse appears in the wrong position.”
“Artistic license?”
“Maybe. But Joseph worked in accounting. He was probably careful with details.”
She looked again.
Then smiled faintly.
“Or he wanted somebody to notice.”
That afternoon, Theodore received a call from an unfamiliar number.
He answered.
A woman's voice whispered, “Don't hang up.”
His body went rigid.
“Amelia?”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes.
For three years, he had imagined hearing that voice again.
He had imagined anger.
Questions.
Relief.
What he felt instead was grief.
“Where are you?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Not badly.”
“Amelia—”
“Listen to me. Martin knows you found the notebook.”
Theodore looked toward Anthony, who stood across the room.
“How?”
“He has people inside the police department.”
“Samuel Reed?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Theodore's jaw tightened.
“Is Samuel alive?”
“I think so.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“What does Mercer want?”
Amelia began crying quietly.
“The recording.”
Theodore closed his eyes.
“What recording?”
“Joseph recorded Martin admitting what he did.”
“What did he do?”
A long silence.
Then Amelia whispered, “He murdered your brother.”
Theodore gripped the phone.
For three years, he had known.
Somewhere deep inside.
But hearing it spoken aloud nearly broke him.
“Tell me everything.”
“I can't. They're watching.”
“Who?”
“Martin's people.”
“Amelia, I'll come get you.”
“No!”
Her voice rose sharply.
Then dropped.
“If you come, they'll kill both of us.”
Theodore looked toward the window.
“Where's the recording?”
“In the painting.”
“We examined the painting.”
“Not the frame.”
“Someone opened it.”
“I know.”
“Did they find it?”
“I don't think so.”
Theodore swallowed.
“Why?”
“Because Joseph was smarter than Martin.”
The line crackled.
Then Amelia whispered, “Ask the artist what she sees when the picture is turned upside down.”
The call ended.
Theodore immediately called Rebecca.
Then Iris.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“I need your help.”
“That's an unusual opening for you.”
He almost smiled.
“I know.”
“What happened?”
“Amelia called.”
Iris went silent.
“Is she safe?”
“Not yet.”
“What did she say?”
Theodore took a breath.
“She said to turn the painting upside down.”
An hour later, Iris stood inside an evidence examination room with Rebecca and Theodore.
The painting lay on a large table beneath bright overhead lights.
A forensic technician carefully rotated it.
The city skyline became an abstract collection of shapes.
Water turned into sky.
Buildings became dark columns.
And the reflection Iris had noticed became something else.
A face.
Not a full portrait.
But the suggestion of one.
A narrow jaw.
Prominent nose.
Heavy eyebrows.
Iris leaned forward.
“Wait.”
She took a sheet of tracing paper.
Rebecca watched as Iris outlined the features.
The face slowly emerged.
Theodore stared.
“Victor.”
Iris shook her head.
“No.”
She added a few lines.
“Look at the hairline.”
Theodore's expression changed.
The face wasn't Victor.
It was Martin Mercer.
Rebecca leaned forward.
“Joseph hid Mercer's face in the painting?”
Iris studied the image.
“Maybe. But that isn't the important part.”
“What is?”
She pointed toward the eye.
A tiny series of numbers had been painted beneath the dark iris.
Not visible until the image was reversed and enlarged.
4-1-7.
Theodore stared.
“Four seventeen.”
Iris nodded.
“Could be a room number.”
Rebecca looked at the technician.
“Or a case reference.”
Iris studied the lower corner.
There was another detail.
A shape that resembled a key.
Beside it, one small word.
MOTHER.
Theodore went completely still.
“What?” Iris asked.
He looked at the painting.
Then whispered, “Joseph didn't trust me to keep it safe.”
Rebecca frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“He trusted my mother.”
Iris remembered Eleanor Vale.
The cheerful woman with silver hair.
The woman who had insisted her son attend a Valentine's painting class.
The woman who wore a pearl bracelet and smiled as though nothing in the world could frighten her.
Iris looked at Theodore.
“Does your mother have something numbered 417?”
Theodore thought.
Then his face changed.
“My father's storage room.”
“Where?”
“At the old family house.”
“What's in it?”
“Paintings. Family photographs. My father's things.”
Rebecca was already reaching for her phone.
But Theodore shook his head.
“There’s another problem.”
“What?”
“My mother went there this morning.”
Iris felt the room turn cold.
“Why?”
Theodore looked at the clock.
“Because she said she wanted to bring home something Joseph had painted.”
He reached for his phone.
Called her.
No answer.
Called again.
Nothing.
Then his phone vibrated.
A message from Eleanor.
One sentence.
THEODORE, I FOUND WHAT JOSEPH LEFT ME.
And beneath it, a photograph.
Eleanor standing beside an open wooden box.
Inside was a small silver recording device.
Theodore stared.
Then another message arrived.
It wasn't from Eleanor.
May you like
It came from an unknown number.
THANK YOU FOR FINDING IT FOR US.
