Unleashed (8 page)

“Private YouTube channel,” he said, watching the computer screen as he waited for the url to load. I’d just explained what we would be viewing. “Interesting.”

That was another habit that irritated me. He always said
interesting
when he didn’t understand something.

Well, he’d understand soon enough. I’d uploaded some great video.

“Hey,” he said as the clip started to play. “That’s my office and…”

He was picking his nose. This had taken place later in the morning, after he’d hidden the Picasso. Just in case the footage of him with a stolen Picasso wasn’t enough leverage to get what I wanted, I knew he’d be mortified if I threatened to release a clip of him digging in his left nostril.

“Yup,” I said. “It gets better. Or worse, depending on your viewpoint.”

With four video-cam ballpoints in the penholder, I’d gotten a lot of great footage of Dr. Evans. I stood behind him as we both reviewed the edited montage. First he picked up the painting and examined it from all angles. Then he moved to a filing cabinet and hid it inside a drawer. Later, he slipped it into a briefcase. Then, in the last bit of footage, he was seen leaving his office with the briefcase.

The video ended.

I moved out from behind his desk, pulled up a chair and sat across from him.

“I assume you’re behind this illegal video of a private office,” Dr. Evans said. “My advice is to delete the video immediately before I call in the authorities.”

“My advice is to help me with what I need. Otherwise that video is going to be a great embarrassment for you.”

“I was rubbing my nose,” he said. He ran his fingers through his hair and smoothed it over his scalp. “From a different angle, that would be obvious.”

“That would be the least of your worries. The Picasso you took from the office is real.”

“Of course it is,” he said. “I had it authenticated and valued.”

“You know where it’s from?” I said.

“Your vacation house. Where it hung on the east wall of the dining room.”

This was troubling me. That he didn’t seem troubled.

“Exactly,” I said. “How many times during dinner parties did you make it clear to everyone that you lusted over that painting and would do anything to own it?”

“Every time I was there,” Dr. Evans said.

“So there are plenty of witnesses to agree to that if it comes before a judge.”

“I suppose,” he said.

It bothered me that he wasn’t running his hands over his head.

“So,” I said. “When it’s discovered that you have the real one and that the
Picasso hanging in our dining room is a forgery…”

It was a forgery painted by Jo and planted by Raven. But that truth would never make it into a courtroom.

“Hmm,” he said. “I suppose that would make it awkward for your father.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“What game are you trying to play here?” he asked. “Tell me, and maybe I can help.”

I fought the urge to run my fingers through my own hair. This wasn’t going the way I’d expected. Bentley and I had known it was a medium-long shot in the first place, but now it looked like all chances of leverage were disappearing.

“It’s simple,” I said. “There’s a forgery in our vacation house. You’re on video in obvious possession of the original. And furthermore, I’ve been recording our entire conversation with this pen…”

I pulled out the miniature cam, which had been peeking over the edge of my
shirt pocket. There were three in his penholder too, just in case.

“And the video from this pen,” I continued, “will clearly show you admitting that you took the painting and had it authenticated and valued. I’d say if I brought this new video and the YouTube video to the authorities, it would be obvious that you stole the Picasso you’ve always wanted and replaced it with a forgery. Life as you know it would be over. Bye-bye nice office and nice home.”

It was a bluff. I had no intention of seeing anyone charged with a crime that didn’t happen. Although, if Dr. Evans had any degree of honesty, he wouldn’t have taken and hidden the Picasso that had been waiting for him on his desk.

“Interesting,” he said. Hands still calm on his lap. “And why are you making this threat?”

“I want information from you,” I said. “About my father.”

“So you’re blackmailing me.”

“Trading,” I said. I thought about it. “Nope. Might as well call it what it is. I’m blackmailing you for help.”

“What kind of information about your father?”

I had the information in one of the folders that Raven had taken from Dr. Evans’s office.

“About two weeks after my brother was born,” I said, “my father faced a private disciplinary hearing at the hospital. The records show it was for harassing a nurse, and that there was a settlement. I doubt that’s what happened. I think Croft money was used to protect him. I want to know what really happened.”

“I don’t think you do,” Dr. Evans said. “Really. You should just drop this.”

“I want answers,” I said. “Or the videos go to the hospital board.”

He sighed. “The irony here is so delicious.”

I squinted in puzzlement.

He answered my unspoken question.

“There’s a reason I always said I wanted that painting,” Dr. Evans said. “It’s because of what I know about your father. I said it as often as possible, in front of as many people as possible, because it was a constant reminder to him that I owned him.”

“You owned him?” I’m sure I looked as puzzled as I felt. Dr. Evans was definitely in the power position here.

Dr. Evans gave me a tight grin. “It’s called blackmail. When the painting showed up on my desk, I thought he’d left it behind for me to finally get me off his back.”

Now I felt my jaw unhinge.

Dr. Evans snorted. “So here’s the truth. The best thing you could do is leave that fake in place and never let anyone know about the switch. Because the only person it’s really going to hurt is your father.”

What Dr. Evans didn’t know was that was the most valuable thing I could have heard. I dreamed of hurting my father.

“So,” I said, “if you now have the painting you always wanted, why not tell me the truth about the disciplinary hearing?”

EIGHTEEN

Schmedley—the detective Bentley and I had hired whose real name was Vince Crowther—had a decent office high up in an office building that gave a good view of downtown Vancouver. By decent, I didn’t mean expensive carpet and oil paintings and a gleaming walnut desk, but rather clean and organized, with classy print reproductions of famous artists.

He was expecting me at 10:00 am, and that’s when I opened the door to the office.

I held a throwaway cell phone in my right hand, all set up with a month-to-month cell and data plan purchased
from Walmart. I truly did mean to throw it away as soon as this meeting was finished.

“Good to see you,” Schmedley said. He didn’t even bother to get up. He remained in his chair in front of his computer and swiveled to face me. Sloppy.

He probably meant what he said, that it was good to see me.

That’s because I’d promised to bring him a certified check for payment for his services. I held it in my left hand and walked forward and set it on his desk.

“Thanks,” he said. But not until he’d looked it over thoroughly to make sure it was full payment.

“In the legal world,” I said as I backed away a few steps, “proof is whatever will hold up in court. Isn’t that what you told me when I hired you?”

“Exactly.”

“So if someone threatened you, and you had it on video, that would be proof.”

“Yup,” he said. He was a private investigator.

“And that would make it probable,” I continued, “that you record all conversations in this office with a hidden video camera?”

He was a detective; he would have all the latest in electronic surveillance equipment.

“Thinking of threatening me?” he said, smirking.

His non-answer was as good as an answer. Bentley’s prediction had been correct. It would have been stupid to march in and make threats that could get me in trouble later. Which meant, of course, that Bentley and I had needed to come up with a way to hurt Schmedley without any chance of repercussions for us.

I glanced at my throwaway phone. I had an email in the out-box, and I hit
Send
.

“So if a person had been tortured by having curling irons taped to his hands,” I said, “he’d have a tough time getting justice without proof of who had done it to him.”

I was watching Schmedley’s face carefully. I was glad when he gave me a smile. To me, that said far more than all the evidence Bentley had found by hacking the guy’s computer. The trouble with the evidence on Schmedley’s computer was that it wouldn’t hold up in court, because it had been illegally obtained.

“Very tough time,” Schmedley answered.

His computer dinged. Incoming email. From me.

Bentley and I had been undecided. Would he glance at the screen, or would he be polite and ignore it? I’d guessed he wouldn’t be polite. Not to a kid like me.

He glanced at the screen to check his message. The subject heading was
all in caps:
PROOF OF CURLING IRON TORTURE
.

We’d been prepared in case he didn’t look. I’d have told him I’d just sent him an email and asked him to look at it. That would sound innocent on whatever recording equipment he had in the office.

The important thing was the satisfaction of him knowing that Bentley and I were paying him back.

He looked at the screen and looked at me.

I shrugged. That would look innocent on a video recording of this conversation.

He would have been inhuman not to be curious enough to open the email.

As the attachments downloaded and began to open on Schmedley’s monitor, I hit
Send
on a text in my phone that had been waiting to go to Bentley. The text had one word:
ENJOY
.

Bentley had a monitor at his end to mirror what was on Schmedley’s monitor. Getting into Schmedley’s hard drive a
day earlier had been a breeze for Bentley. He’d set up an email account that was almost identical to Winchester’s. Since Schmedley had already been in email contact with Winchester, he wouldn’t get suspicious receiving an email supposedly from Winchester. Nor would Schmedley have any reason to distrust the attachment.

The email had this for a subject heading:
To Confirm. This is Jace
.

The attachment had looked like a photo of me but had also been an executable file that slid into Schmedley’s computer system. Malware. From there, Bentley had taken full control of Schmedley’s hard drive. That’s where we’d found plenty of proof that it had been Schmedley who’d put the curling irons on me.

Right now on Schmedley’s monitor, the first photo in the PowerPoint slide show I had just emailed him popped into view. I’d been in a hurry, so there were no fancy transitions between photos, and the
photos weren’t perfect, but I was confident the slide show would make my point.

The first photo in the slide show was a piece of paper hanging from a fishing line, against the background of the cubicle door in the toilet in the gym where Schmedley had duct-taped me in place. All the rest would look the same, but with a different message.

THERE IS NO ONE AROUND TO HEAR YOU SCREAM

Schmedley glanced over his shoulder at me.

“Looks familiar,” I said. “How about to you?”

I was being careful not to say anything that could incriminate me if it was played to a jury in a courtroom.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Schmedley said. He must have been just as aware of the danger of having this conversation recorded.

“Keep reading,” I said.

BECAUSE THE PAIN WILL BE FAR WORSE THAN CURLING IRONS

“Looks like an amateur attempt,” Schmedley said. “Are you wearing a recording device?”

I smiled for the benefit of whatever camera was here.

“All I wanted to do,” I said, “was drop off the payment, like I promised. I hope you discover that I’ve paid you back in full.”

His eyes returned to the screen. And to the PowerPoint file, where he could see the next photo of a note hanging from a fishing line.

WE KNOW YOU WENT TO MY FATHER AND LET HIM HIRE YOU TO FIND OUT WHY I’D HIRED YOU TO LOOK INTO THE DISCIPLINARY HEARING

“Speaking of needing proof in court,” Schmedley said, “incriminating emails can be traced.”

“Yes,” I said. “They can.”

Hence the throwaway.

DID YOU DO THAT BECAUSE YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD MAKE A LOT MORE MONEY OFF HIM THAN OFF ME?

“Libel is also a criminal act,” Schmedley said. “Libel consists of an accusation that hurts someone’s reputation and that can be proven in a court of law.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “And what accusation would that be? We are just having a conversation here, and I can’t quite follow it. So please—explain. What accusation have I made against you?”

“Nice try,” he said.

“Something happening on your monitor?” I asked.

AFTER ALL, UNTIL YOU LEARNED I WAS HIS SON, YOU THOUGHT I WAS JUST SOME INNER-CITY KID TRYING TO SCORE WITH SOME KIND OF BLACKMAIL

He flipped me the bird.

“I notice that you are distracted by incoming emails,” I said. “I can leave if you want. Or we can continue to discuss
all of your services. And I mean all of them.”

I pointed at his monitor, where I knew the next photo on the cubicle door would appear as part of the PowerPoint file he had opened. A photo of a note he knew I had written for him to read.

HOW DO I KNOW IT WAS YOU? REMEMBER THE NOTES YOU SHOWED ME WHILE I WAS DUCTTAPED TO A TOILET? NOTES PRINTED FROM A COMPUTER INSTEAD OF HANDWRITTEN? YOU WROTE THE SEQUENCE OF NOTES ON YOUR COMPUTER. TRASHING FILES DOESN’T DELETE FILES. YOU HAVE TO OVERWRITE THE LOCATION ON THE HARD DRIVE WITH ANOTHER FILE
.

“I’m wondering,” I said. “Have you ever stored inappropriate photos of yourself on your hard drive? Because that would be embarrassing if people saw you in a different light, wouldn’t it? If they
saw you doing very private things that aren’t socially appropriate.”