Chapter 6 - THE PAINTING THAT LIED
Ryan moved the 7 remaining paintings into his study before midnight.
Ivy objected to the word moved.
Leo had stacked them upright against a wall with acid-free paper between each canvas and enough care to satisfy her, which meant she only corrected him 4 times.
Ryan watched from behind his father’s desk.
“You trust Leo with them now?”
“I trust him more than I trust you.”
Leo nodded solemnly.
“Best review I’ve had this year.”
Ryan ignored him.
Ethan had left under supervision, though Ryan did not call it that.
Marcus had taken the old freight manifest to a forensic laboratory owned by someone who apparently asked fewer questions than a normal laboratory would.
The signet remained missing.
Victor remained uncalled.
And Lorenzo Vale, according to Marcus, had not been seen at his usual restaurant, office, or riverfront club since early afternoon.
Ivy stood before her own paintings and felt strangely invaded.
She had made them in sunlight.
Now they stood in a room built for secrets.
James laughing behind his fruit cart.
The hotel maid resting on a bench.
2 children chasing pigeons.
The dancing girl.
The sleeping worker.
A city bus driver eating from a paper bag.
An old man feeding birds beneath the oak trees.
Caroline’s portrait was missing from the group because the broken frame remained with Ryan’s evidence people.
The canvases looked different indoors.
Not less alive.
More accused.
Ryan stood beside Ivy.
“If Victor’s message is accurate, Vale wants something you saw.”
“I see a lot of things.”
“What did you paint recently that might matter?”
She waved at the canvases.
“People.”
“Behind the people.”
Ivy frowned.
He had learned fast.
“Backgrounds.”
“Yes.”
She stepped closer to James’s portrait.
Fruit cart.
Tree trunk.
Hotel windows across the square.
Traffic beyond.
Nothing obvious.
Ryan turned on a brighter lamp.
Ivy leaned in.
Painting was not photography.
She simplified what did not matter.
A car became 3 strokes.
A building became light and shape.
Faces in distant crowds became color.
But sometimes her hand recorded relationships her mind had not named.
She moved to the hotel maid.
The woman sat on a green bench with her shoes beside her. Behind her, the façade of the DeSoto Hotel caught afternoon light.
Ivy had painted part of the glass door as a blue-gray rectangle with loose reflections.
A black car.
2 trees.
A man in a navy suit.
She leaned closer.
Ryan noticed.
“What?”
“Get me my magnifying glass.”
“Where?”
“My bag.”
Ryan found it.
Ivy took the glass and studied the painted reflection.
The man was only 2 inches tall.
No face.
Gray hair.
Navy suit.
One hand lifted near his chest.
On that hand, Ivy had painted a small gold mark.
A ring.
Her pulse changed.
“Ryan.”
He stepped closer.
She pointed.
“When did Victor give you the signet?”
“After my father’s funeral.”
“And he stopped wearing it?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
Ryan looked through the magnifier.
His face hardened.
The gold mark was on the man’s right ring finger.
Victor’s missing habit.
“What day did you paint this?”
Ivy thought.
The hotel maid was Renee. She worked mornings Tuesday through Saturday.
Ivy remembered because Renee had fallen asleep for 10 minutes before her bus came.
“3 Thursdays ago.”
“Time?”
“About 4:30.”
Ryan took out his phone.
“Leo. Pull hotel exterior cameras for 3 Thursdays ago between 4 and 5.”
Leo left the room.
Ivy kept studying the canvas.
Another figure stood in the reflection.
She had painted him as a charcoal shape near Victor.
Nothing distinctive except a slash of pale color near the collar.
White pocket square.
Ryan stared.
“Lorenzo wears white pocket squares.”
“So do thousands of men.”
“Not with Victor.”
Ivy looked at him.
“You really want it to be Vale.”
“No.”
“You do.”
Ryan’s eyes met hers.
“I want the problem to have a shape.”
That was more honest.
She understood it.
A shape could be painted.
Named.
Fought.
A shapeless threat entered everything.
Leo returned 7 minutes later.
“The hotel has the footage archived.”
He connected his tablet to Ryan’s television.
The square appeared.
4:26 p.m.
Renee sat on the bench.
Ivy painted 15 feet away.
At 4:31, Victor Adler walked out of the hotel.
At 4:32, Lorenzo Vale joined him.
They spoke for 3 minutes.
No handshake.
No argument.
At 4:35, a silver sedan pulled to the curb.
Vale entered the rear seat.
Victor walked away alone.
Ryan replayed it.
Then again.
Ivy felt anger rise.
“Victor told you Vale was using old dock workers.”
“Yes.”
“He gave Ethan a photograph pointing at Vale.”
“Yes.”
“And 3 weeks ago he met Vale privately across from me.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are we still speaking about him like a beloved uncle who forgot a birthday?”
Ryan turned off the screen.
“Because evidence of a meeting is not evidence of murder.”
“Your standards are surprisingly responsible for a man with armed employees.”
“I learned not to kill people based on paintings.”
Ivy froze.
Ryan heard his own words.
Something cold entered the room.
He looked away first.
“My father did not teach me that lesson,” he said.
Ivy studied him.
There were questions she could ask.
She did not.
Not yet.
Her phone rang.
James.
Relief arrived so quickly she smiled before answering.
“Where have you been? I’ve called you 3 times.”
No answer.
Only breathing.
Then a man’s voice.
“Ms. Sanders.”
Ivy’s smile vanished.
Ryan saw it.
His entire posture changed.
“Who is this?”
“Your friend is fine.”
Ivy stood very still.
“Put James on.”
A rustle.
Then James’s voice, strained.
“Baby girl, don’t—”
The line shifted.
The man returned.
“He is fine because I need you calm.”
Ryan held out his hand for the phone.
Ivy shook her head.
“What do you want?”
“You painted Pier 9 last summer.”
She frowned.
“I’ve painted 50 places.”
“August 17. Sunset. Tugboat near the loading cranes.”
Memory moved.
A humid evening.
Orange sky.
James had brought lemonade.
She had painted the river from a public walkway near an old shipping pier.
The canvas had sold to a tourist from Atlanta.
“Yes.”
“You remember it?”
“I remember enough.”
“I need you to paint it again.”
Ivy looked at Ryan.
“Why?”
“Because the original is gone.”
“Then find the tourist.”
“We did.”
A chill moved through her.
The man continued.
“Paint every person. Every vehicle. Every mark you remember.”
“I don’t work like a camera.”
“You work better than one.”
Ryan came closer.
The man said, “1 hour.”
“Impossible.”
“Then Mr. Porter pays for your lack of speed.”
Ivy’s hand tightened around the phone.
Ryan mouthed, Keep him talking.
She turned away from him.
“Where do I deliver it?”
“When you’re done, I’ll call.”
“How do I know James is alive?”
“Ask him something.”
James came back on.
Ivy closed her eyes.
“James, what did you tell me the first day I set up in Ellis Square?”
He breathed hard.
“That your red umbrella looked stupid.”
Despite everything, her throat tightened.
“And?”
“That you’d last 2 days.”
“You were wrong.”
“Story of my life.”
The line changed again.
The stranger spoke.
“1 hour.”
The call ended.
Ivy lowered the phone.
For 1 second she could not move.
Then Ryan took it from her and handed it to Leo.
“Trace.”
“Already trying.”
“Traffic cameras around Ellis Square. Find when James left. Every vehicle.”
Leo moved.
Ryan turned to Ivy.
“You are not painting anything until we know where he is.”
She stared at him.
“Did you hear the call?”
“Yes.”
“Then get out of my way.”
“You give them what they want, they still have James.”
“If I don’t, they have James and a reason to hurt him.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened.
Ivy walked toward her supplies.
He caught her arm.
Again, not hard.
Again, enough.
“Think.”
“I am thinking.”
“You’re frightened.”
“Yes.”
The admission surprised him.
It surprised her too.
Ivy looked at his hand on her arm.
Ryan released her.
She stepped closer.
“I am terrified. That does not mean I’m wrong.”
Ryan said nothing.
“James has fed me when I couldn’t afford lunch. He watched my canvases when I ran to the bathroom. When my mother died, he closed his cart for 3 days because I couldn’t stand people in the apartment and he refused to leave me alone.”
Her voice broke.
She hated it.
“Do not tell me to sit safely in your beautiful house while somebody hurts him because of me.”
Ryan’s expression changed.
Not softer.
More resolved.
“Fine.”
Ivy blinked.
“Fine?”
“You paint.”
“And?”
“I find James.”
She stared at him.
“That sounded very dramatic.”
“I meant it.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
Ryan looked at the clock.
“55 minutes.”
Ivy pulled a blank canvas from her supply case.
She set it on the easel.
Her hands shook once.
Then stopped when she picked up a brush.
Painting had always done that.
The world could burn beyond the edge of a canvas, but inside it there were only decisions.
Shape.
Distance.
Light.
Memory.
August 17.
Pier 9.
Orange sunset.
Tugboat.
She painted fast.
Broad strokes first.
Water.
Concrete.
Cranes.
A white delivery van near the fence.
A dark sedan.
3 men near the loading platform.
A woman in a bright jacket walking a dog.
Ryan stood behind her without speaking.
At 22 minutes, Ivy painted the nearest man.
Tall.
Gray shirt.
At 29, the second.
Heavyset.
Baseball cap.
At 34, she stopped.
Something in the memory resisted.
Ryan noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Ivy.”
She closed her eyes.
The sunset.
The river.
James complaining about mosquitoes.
A horn from the tugboat.
The 3 men.
No.
4.
There had been someone inside the sedan.
Only an arm visible through the open window.
A hand resting on the door.
She painted it.
Then froze.
On the hand was a ring.
Gold.
Large.
Oval face.
A signet.
Ryan saw it.
His breath changed.
Ivy turned toward him.
“Your uncle wasn’t just meeting Vale 3 weeks ago.”
Ryan stared at the painted hand.
“He was at Pier 9 last summer.”
Ivy looked back at the canvas.
But something bothered her.
A signet ring identified Victor.
Except Victor claimed he had given the ring to Ryan 12 years earlier.
Ryan had kept it in his father’s desk ever since.
Until tonight.
She looked at him slowly.
“Ryan.”
“Yes.”
“If your signet was in this house last summer…”
His eyes narrowed.
“…then the man at Pier 9 wasn’t Victor.”
Silence.
Ivy painted the wrist.
A dark watchband.
A pale scar across the thumb.
Ryan stepped closer.
He knew that scar.
She could tell.
“Whose hand is it?”
Ryan did not answer.
“Ryan.”
May you like
His face became colder than she had ever seen it.
“Ethan’s.”
