I stood behind Dr. Evans’s desk the next morning. His smug perspective on the world was obvious to me in the enlarged trophy photos scattered across the opposite wall. Every time he looked up, he would see himself in smiling poses with various celebrities or high-profile politicians, including the prime minister of Canada.
I’d never liked this man, and over the years I’d had plenty of occasions to hone my dislike. He and his wife were constant visitors to our vacation home on the coastline. He dressed out of a fashion magazine and had a habit of snorting laughter at his own jokes and constantly smoothing his thinning hair over his scalp whenever he was nervous.
“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?”