Portrait of Death: Uncovered

by Isabel Wroth

  Find the truth, Jo. It's out there somewhere.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My mother's ashes arrived a week after I left Pine Hill for the last time.

  The portrait I'd started the day of my hypnosis session now hung above the fireplace in the living room, and to someone who didn't know me, they might look at it and see a family portrait.

  A young red-haired woman with a blonde baby boy perched on her hip, holding the hand of a black-haired girl while the three of them walked through a field of wildflowers.

  It was a moment in time— a memory of mine. The first one I’d seen when I opened the locked door in my mind and pushed past the blockage put there by Dr. Banes.

  Katya had taken Elliot and me for a walk in the woods behind the mansion.

  We followed an old deer trail while we explored the first change of the autumn leaves.

  I remember chattering away about how I wanted to mix the perfect blend of orange, red, and yellow paint to capture the change of season in the trees themselves, then falling silent when we turned a corner and found ourselves on the edge of a field of flowers.

  We stood there, my hand safely held in Katya’s, appreciating the last burst of blooms before winter would cover it all in a blanket of snow.

  She was smiling when I looked up at her, a happy, peaceful smile, and other than Elliot’s soft coos, we didn’t say a word as we slowly walked through the thick of it all.

  It was a beautiful memory, and I hoped someday I would be able to look at this painting and remember the innocent happiness I’d felt on that perfect autumn day, unspoiled by the spurt of rage I felt that this moment—and so many others—had been purposefully forced into a dark hole thanks to Dr. Banes’s treatments.

  I didn't have Elliot's ashes, so I'd burned his Portrait of Death and gathered the ashes in a glass jar to set next to the small statue of a cute cherubic angel already seated on the mantle.

  I’d draped Katya's necklace around the statue's praying hands. I wasn't religious, but Katya had been, and it seemed like the right thing to do.

  Now, I sat the urn with her ashes by the angel and stepped back to make sure it all looked just right.

  I'll spread the ashes eventually, but for now, I need them close.

  “That's really beautiful, GB,” Nigel told me, slipping his arm around my waist as he came up alongside me.

  I laid my head on his shoulder and murmured a soft, “Thanks.”

  We stood there in silence, just soaking up the happiness I'd managed to put into Katya and Elliot's smile, and in my own as a little girl.

  The sound of banging hammers interrupted the moment, but the banging meant some actual work was getting done downstairs in Nigel's apartment.

  Once Callum found out that I signed a contract and paid the contractor in advance without much to show for it, he put his boot up the guy's ass and gave him two options: get the work done or give the money back and go to court for breach of contract.

  My man was awesome, and I was the luckiest woman in the world.

  That new thing with my curse had worn off within a week, and I was no longer seeing the manner in which people would die every time I shook their hand, and I hadn’t had any more unexplainable sleepwalking episodes or dug up any more bodies.

  Thank god. I don’t think I could handle it if my gift getting stronger means I’ll start digging up bodies on a regular basis.

  I was entertaining the idea of getting one of those laminated posters that had a blank bubble at the bottom, and an announcement on the top that read, This Facility Has Gone This Many Days Without Incident.

  Though the more I thought about it and everything that had happened in recent days, it seemed stupid to tempt fate.

  “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you close a cold case!”

  Nigel and I both turned together, still arm in arm, in time to see John come striding through the door with his arms held aloft, as though he’d just scored a goal.

  He was grinning from ear to ear, carrying a folder in one hand, and a bottle of champagne in the other.

  His sweet, beleaguered-looking wife followed shortly after with an overly dramatic roll of her eyes, but she was smiling a bittersweet smile, coming to terms with the fact that having something to do was good for John’s health.

  “John, honestly, you didn’t even knock,” Marcy scolded, snatching the champagne from him on her way to come give me and Nigel both a hug.

  “The door was open; why would I knock?” John reasoned with a broad grin. “Heard those workers finally got their shit together downstairs. You getting what you paid for outta them?”

  I knew if I said no, John would turn right around and march down there to have a word with my contractor.

  “So far. The bathroom is supposed to be done this week, and then it’s flooring and paint. According to Mr. Benedetto, Nigel should be able to move in before Thanksgiving.”

  “Good. You let me know if they start slacking off,” John ordered sternly, making like he was going to go back to telling us about the solved cold case, but Marcy jumped the gun.

  “Speaking of Thanksgiving, the family is getting together at my sister’s house this year. Nigel, you’ll join us, won’t you?”

  Marcy smiled eagerly at my friend and assistant, and I did my best to act like Callum had told me about the gathering already. He’d been busy with work lately, so I figured it just slipped his mind.

  “That is so nice! I’d love to. I’ll bring a cherry cheesecake dip. I’ll just put this on ice, shall I? Ooh, Cava, perfect for mimosas!” Nigel sang in delight, practically dancing his way to the kitchen.

  “Hold the juice in mine,” John called after him. “Actually, hold the bubbles, too. Should have brought beer.”

  I rolled my lips together to keep from laughing at John’s manly affront at the idea of drinking a mimosa.

  “So, you solved another POD case?” I prompted, inviting Callum’s parents to sit in the living room while Nigel bustled happily in the kitchen, unable to keep from smiling at his triumphant whoop when the cork popped.

  John threw himself down on the couch, Marcy beside him. “Sure did! The parents were convinced it was the boyfriend.” He offered me the file.

  I opened the neatly compiled report that showed just how organized John could be in his data collection.

  There was a smiling, happy photo of a young woman clipped to the top corner of the file.

  The portrait I’d painted of Aimee Martinez—a college freshman found dead in her dorm room two years ago—was so much uglier. Bloodier.

  The coroner’s report I looked at counted thirty-seven stab wounds to Aimee’s chest, and genitals, her face little more than a red ruin of slash marks.

  The poor girl’s body was nearly unrecognizable in all that gore, and I hadn’t been able to stand looking at the painting for very long.

  The only reason John had been able to locate the open cold case with any ease was the sheer number of stab wounds.

  “It wasn’t a boyfriend?” I asked, swallowing thickly while I turned the pages to go over the rest of the information about Aimee.

  “Nope. In the initial police report, there was another student who lived in the same building that stated she’d seen a man of average height, average build, wearing a hoodie come out of the dorm on the night of the murder.

  “The security cameras in the building didn’t have any shots of Aimee’s floor but caught no less than twenty average guys wearing hoodies going in and out, and only a few actually looked up to be identifiable.”

  John gave Nigel an odd look when Nigel sailed over with a tray of three mimosas, a beer in a frosty mug, and a fruit and cheese platter, like we were at some fancy restaurant.

  “Thank you, Nigel.” I chuckled, accepting the flute of champagne and orange juice from him with a little toast.

  “I live for the opportunity to put out a cheese tray,” Nigel declared dramatically.

  “You give great tray,” I teased, wh
ich made John snort his beer and set Marcy off on a round of giggles.

  Though his eyes were sparkling with amusement, Nigel gave a haughty sniff and reached up to tweak his Windsor knotted tie.

  “It’s true. I’ve got to confirm delivery of the bathroom countertops. Congratulations on the win, Mr. Graham.”

  Nigel took his mimosa to go, and after clearing the foam out of his nose, John wheezed around his laughter and continued with his report.

  “I reviewed the tapes, the witness statement, and tracked down Becca Simms—the witness. Turns out, she and Aimee were lovers, but Aimee wasn’t interested in taking the relationship public.

  “Aimee even went so far as to post some nasty comments on the college forum and made an extremely vague reference about the connection between liberals and lesbians that Becca took personally and assumed was about her.

  “The next time Aimee asked Becca over for a ‘study date’...” John made quotes with his fingers, jerking his chin at the file I held open. “She brought along a hunting knife and went to town.”

  I glanced down at the copy of Becca’s signed confession and photos of a dirt-covered knife lying atop a pile of dirt-caked clothes: a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of jeans.

  My brows bounced as I shied away from looking too closely at the murder weapon.

  “A hunting knife?” I asked, wondering why someone would need a hunting knife in the city.

  John leaned forward to point at the blade, peering upside-down at the file I held.

  “She was a smart cookie, not using a knife from her own little kitchenette. Becca said she bought the knife with cash from a pawn shop in Jersey on the off chance the cops searched her place.

  “She didn’t want to take the chance they’d see one from her set was missing, and apparently, the hunting knife looked big enough to do the job. Don’t suppose you want to know what kind of hunting knife it is?”

  I shook my head and firmly answered, “Sure don’t!”

  John’s lips twitched in brief amusement before he went on with his report.

  “Becca put on Aimee’s clothes when she was done, bundled the knife inside her bloody sweatshirt, put it all in her book bag, and buried it at the South end of Washington Square Park.

  “No one thought anything of it to see a student on camera going in and out of the building she lived in, and because no one but Becca knew Aimee’s sexual orientation, the cops on the case were all looking for a male perp.

  “When I met with Becca, I was still thinking the same thing. Most times when the killer goes for the groin with a knife, it’s considered another psychological act of intercourse or penetration, so if it’s a man stabbed in the junk, we look for a woman, and vice versa.

  “Obviously, this time the assumptions about sexual orientation were incorrect, which is why Becca got away with it for so long. Just looking at Becca, you’d never think she was capable of stabbing anyone thirty-seven times.”

  I had to agree, because looking at Becca’s mug shot, she looked like a kindergarten teacher: plain brown hair and unremarkable brown eyes hidden behind glasses too big for her delicate face.

  She even had on a petal pink sweater set and a dainty gold chain with a heart charm dangling from around her neck.

  “She got squirrely and defensive when I told her I was looking into the case. Too defensive, too quickly, so ... I let her be and did some digging before I took another run at her.

  “When I did, I mentioned the bit about sexual stabbings, and she caved. Becca was going to graduate this year with a degree in Child Development and a job offer to teach second grade at PS 34.”

  “Like hell,” Marcy declared hotly. As a retired teacher and on-call substitute, I’m sure she had plenty to say about a murderer getting anywhere near children.

  “She’s in custody, baby. All good,” John proudly assured his wife.

  I was glad to close Aimee’s folder. I’d burn it along with her portrait and have another thankfully empty space on the wall of my crypt.

  “Where’s that no-good, case stealing son of mine?” John demanded, looking like the proverbial cat with the cream. “He and I have shit to discuss, and I’m in a mood to gloat.”

  My mimosa was starting to go to work, so my giggles were a little higher pitched than normal.

  “He got called into work early this morning. I’ll tell him you hit a home run when he comes in. Which POD case do you plan on tackling next?” I asked, leaning forward to gather up some snacks.

  John crossed his feet at the ankles and stretched out, throwing his arm around Marcy after dropping a kiss on her hair.

  “The cyclist.”

  Ah, yes. The man found in Central Park, dead from blunt force trauma to the forehead.

  In my painting, he lay sprawled out in the grass, half under a bush, his gray and orange bike not far away on the ground.

  I’d seen that one on the news a few days later, and the reporter remarked how the victim appeared to have died as a result of falling off his bike.

  The blue bike, which was propped up against a tree with no signs of any damage whatsoever.

  I gave a toast of my champagne glass, celebrating this small victory. “Tally-ho.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Marcy suddenly breathed, her gaze having found the new painting hanging over the fireplace.

  Naturally, her awed exclamation caused John to look, and I was proud to see the way his brows slowly slid up in astonishment.

  “Is that her?” Marcy asked after a moment of silent appreciation.

  “Yeah,” I murmured with a proud, happy sigh. “That’s my mom.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Callum

  It’s nearly four in the morning by the time I make it home.

  Home, I thought to myself, smiling as the irony and feeling of rightness settled in my gut.

  As I dropped my keys in the bowl by the front door, I looked around the shadowy expanse of the warehouse loft, wondering how I would have responded had someone told me six months ago I'd be living here.

  Or be so in love with the woman fast asleep in the bedroom, which was bigger than the apartment I'd just moved out of.

  I'm sure I would have taken it as an insult or some kind of joke.

  The warehouse was twice the size of the Pine Hill mansion, but even with so much space, Jo still managed to turn it into a home.

  Every time I walked through the door, day or night, I felt like I could breathe again. Not just because of the wide-open spaces but because of the warm, inviting brightness.

  I don't know why I'd been so shocked when she asked me to move in. Jo started making space for me long before she'd popped the question.

  A drawer in the bathroom for my spare set of toiletries, my brand of soap in the shower, space in her closet where I could hang up my suit jackets to keep them from getting wrinkled when I stayed over, my brand of beer in the fridge next to her wine, and every night I worked late, she left a light on in the kitchen for me.

  She did it even when I told her I wasn't coming over, just in case.

  This warehouse felt like home to me long before she'd invited me to live with her.

  I made sure the coffee pot was ready to spit out a fresh cup first thing in the morning before I clicked the kitchen light off, thinking about the things I'd learned today that I would have to discuss with Jo tomorrow.

  My beat was in Brooklyn, and Helena's loft was in the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

  The detectives on her case hadn't known to call, and I'd only found out because my captain called to check on Helena after she'd brought in the photos her stalker sent her, two days after the fact.

  Helena died in the exact manner Jo said she would, right down to the detail of her coke-bottle glasses on the floor by her hand.

  Those glasses... I gave a rueful shake of my head. Only Helena Markowitz would make sure to capture her murder on camera. A journalist to the bitter end.

  The tiny camera she'd had put into her glasses recorded e
very second of her death and every inch of her killer's face.

  Thirty-two-year-old, Peter Pelosi, was given up for adoption as an infant and grew up as a ward of the state until the day he turned eighteen.

  Desperate to know where he'd come from, Peter tracked down his birth mother, only to be rejected and told he was the spawn of the devil.

  Sister Mary-Rose was the only living victim of Jimmy the V, and Peter was his son.

  Looking for the father he never knew, Peter went searching, but Jimmy had died the year Peter turned sixteen. Shanked in prison.

  Needing something, anything, to connect him to his father, Peter started following in his father's footsteps, turning to petty crimes that then turned into assault, which later became sexual assault.

  In prison, Peter met guys who'd known his father and heard stories about how Helena Markowitz was responsible for putting Jimmy away by exposing him as a murderer to the world.

  After five years in prison, stewing in his juices, Peter was released and began to stalk Helena, planning the perfect murder.

  The moonlight illuminated the beautiful painting Jo had done of her family, and I couldn't help but stand there and stare for a little while, putting off the inevitable.

  Pop was working for Jo, trying to peel back the layers on a twenty-year-old federal case involving Tomas fucking Pirogov and a human trafficking operation.

  My old man had been getting lessons from some PI crew in Texas on how to uncover shit like that, and one of the guys down there knew a guy, who knew a guy that worked in shutting down human trafficking rings.

  Pop came to me first, wanting to prepare me so I could be there for Jo when he came over with the ugly truths he'd uncovered.

  Katya Siyankova had been one of fifty-three women housed in a warehouse basement, used as breeding stock and kept pregnant by the men involved with the trafficking ring.

  The women had been chained by one ankle in the basement and given expert medical care by an on-call physician with a nasty drug habit.

  Over a ten-year span, PHT, LLC. sold over five hundred infants to people like the Beauchene’s, who couldn't go through a normal adoption agency for whatever reason.