Chapter 5 - THE MAN IN THE PAINTING
“That's impossible,” Anthony said.
Claudia looked miserable.
“I know what I saw.”
Daniel shook his head.
His fingers moved urgently across his tablet.
NOT DAD.
Anthony knelt beside him.
“Then who was it?”
Daniel struggled with the screen.
His right hand had grown tired.
I adjusted the tablet's angle and offered him a moment.
Nobody rushed him.
Finally, two words appeared.
HIS COAT.
Anthony looked at Claudia.
“My coat?”
Daniel nodded.
Claudia pressed her fingers against her temples.
“The painting showed a man wearing your dark overcoat. He was standing beside Keene.”
Anthony owned several expensive overcoats.
But one was distinctive.
A charcoal cashmere coat with a narrow burgundy lining.
His father had given it to him shortly before his death.
He rarely wore it.
And nine months earlier, he had left it at the clinic after the fundraising dinner.
Claudia had collected it.
Anthony stared at his sister.
“Who had access to my coat?”
“I don't know.”
Emily answered quietly.
“Dr. Keene did.”
The revelation changed everything.
The painting wasn't proof that Anthony had attended a secret treatment session.
It was evidence that someone wanted him to appear involved.
Emily explained what Daniel had witnessed.
On the night of the fundraising dinner, Keene had met privately with several investors.
The visitors were shown treatment demonstrations and financial projections.
Daniel had been waiting in the adjoining art studio.
Through the observation window, he saw a man in Anthony's coat standing beside Keene.
The man turned away whenever someone entered.
Daniel painted the scene because he recognized the coat.
“Did he think it was me?” Anthony asked.
Emily shook her head.
“He told me the man walked differently.”
Daniel typed.
LIMPED. LEFT LEG.
Thomas immediately looked up.
“Dr. Keene has a slight limp.”
Anthony's expression darkened.
“So Keene wore my coat.”
“Maybe,” Emily said. “But we need the original painting to know what Daniel actually depicted.”
She wasn't willing to accuse anyone based on a memory alone.
I respected that.
So did Anthony.
Claudia said the thirteenth painting had been taken to her gallery's restoration workshop.
She had ordered the canvas removed from its frame and destroyed.
But the gallery's longtime conservator, Margaret Ellis, had refused.
Margaret was seventy-one and had spent forty years restoring paintings for museums and private collectors.
“She said she wouldn't destroy a child's work without speaking to the child,” Claudia admitted.
“What happened to Margaret?” I asked.
“She retired three weeks later.”
Emily looked at me.
“Margaret was the person who first recognized Daniel's talent.”
Anthony turned toward Thomas.
“Find out where she is.”
Claudia reached into her handbag.
“No need.”
She removed a small paper ticket.
It was yellow, with a handwritten number.
417\.
“Margaret gave me this before she left.”
“What is it?” Anthony asked.
“A storage claim ticket.”
Claudia swallowed.
“She told me that someday I'd regret what I'd done.”
The restoration workshop occupied the lower floor of Claudia's Manhattan gallery.
We arrived shortly after midnight.
Anthony had instructed Thomas to preserve the acquisition records and make copies for an independent forensic review.
The clinic's authorities had also been informed that Emily was safe and willing to make a formal statement.
But none of that could answer the question that mattered most to Daniel.
Where was his painting?
Claudia unlocked the workshop.
Rows of unfinished frames lined the walls.
Margaret's former desk stood near a tall storage cabinet.
The number 417 had been written beneath one drawer.
Claudia opened it.
Inside was an empty canvas sleeve.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then I noticed a smaller envelope beneath the drawer lining.
I pulled it free.
Inside was a photograph.
Margaret stood beside Daniel, smiling as he held a large canvas.
It was the missing thirteenth painting.
The scene matched Emily's description.
A therapy room.
A clock showing 9:17.
A man in Anthony's dark coat standing beside Dr. Keene.
But something else caught my eye.
A tiny reflection appeared in the glass window.
The man wearing Anthony's coat wasn't facing away.
His face was visible in the reflection.
I moved the photograph beneath the desk lamp.
Claudia leaned closer.
Her breath caught.
“That's impossible.”
Anthony stared at the image.
The man in the coat wasn't Dr. Keene.
He was someone much younger.
Someone Claudia recognized immediately.
“That's Peter.”
“Peter who?” I asked.
Claudia gripped the desk.
“Peter Lang. My gallery's financial director.”
Anthony looked toward her.
“Where is he now?”
Claudia didn't answer.
Emily examined the photograph.
Then she pointed toward the corner.
“Rachel, look at what Daniel painted in Peter's hand.”
A silver wristwatch lay against a folded paper.
Beneath the watch was a recognizable signature.
ANTHONY SANTORO.
May you like
And next to it, written in red ink, were three words.
TRANSFER APPROVED TONIGHT.
