Chapter 5: Safe Houses and Secrets
I spent the night in a 24-hour diner on the North Side, drinking coffee and pretending to read a newspaper while watching every person who walked through the door. The envelope Victoria had given me sat in my lap like it was made of dynamite.
At sunrise, I finally opened it.
The documents inside made my blood run cold. Bills of sale for paintings worth millions of dollars. Authentication certificates signed by respected art experts. Insurance claims for pieces reported stolen decades ago.
And at the bottom of the stack, a photograph that made me drop my coffee cup.
It was a painting I'd never seen before, but the signature in the corner was unmistakable.
Except I'd never painted the landscape in the photograph. Rolling hills under a stormy sky, painted in a style that looked like my work but somehow more mature, more sophisticated than anything I'd ever created.
My hands were shaking as I pulled out my phone and called Tommy.
"Lucy? Where are you? I've been worried sick."
"Tommy, I need to see you. But not at your place or mine. Somewhere public."
"What's wrong?"
"Everything. Can you meet me at the Art Institute? In an hour?"
"Of course.
An hour later, I sat on a bench in front of Nighthawks, trying to pretend I was just another art lover admiring Edward Hopper's masterpiece. Tommy found me there, carrying two cups of coffee and wearing the worried expression.
"You look terrible," he said, sitting down beside me.
"Thanks. That's what every girl wants to hear."
"I mean it, Lucy. When's the last time you slept?"
I showed him the photograph of the painting with my signature.
"Tommy, I need you to look at this and tell me if you think I painted it."
He studied the image carefully,
"It looks like your work. But..."
"But?"
"But it's better than anything I've seen you do. More confident, somehow. Like someone took your natural talent and trained it properly."
That's exactly what I'd been afraid he'd say.
"Tommy, I've never painted this landscape. I've never even seen this place."
"Maybe you painted it and forgot? You've been under a lot of stress lately."
I pulled out the authentication documents and spread them across the bench between us.
"Look at the date on this certificate. It says the painting was authenticated in 2018. I was still doing construction work in 2018. I didn't even own professional art supplies."
Tommy's face went pale as he read through the documents.
"Lucy, these are bills of sale for stolen artwork. Millions of dollars worth."
"I know. Victoria gave them to me last night."
"You met with her? After finding a dead body in her gallery?"
I told him about the meeting at Millennium Park, about Victoria's claims that Rebecca Stone had been investigating art theft, about the threatening text I'd received.
"This is way beyond what we can handle," Tommy said when I finished. "We need to take this to the FBI."
"Victoria said there are cops involved in the network. How do we know who to trust?"
Tommy was quiet for a long moment, staring at the painting photograph.
"Lucy, I think I know someone who might help us."
"Who?"
"My sister Sarah. She works for an insurance company that specializes in art theft recovery. She's seen cases like this before."
I'd met Sarah Walsh twice in the three years I'd known Tommy. She was ten years older than her brother, with the same kind eyes but a sharper edge that came from working in corporate security.
"You trust her?"
"With my life. And more importantly, with yours."
Two hours later, we sat in Sarah's downtown office, surrounded by photographs of stolen artwork and insurance claims that read like a museum catalog.
"This is big," Sarah said, spreading Victoria's documents across her desk. "I recognize several of these pieces from our stolen art database."
"Is that good or bad?" I asked.
"It's complicated. The good news is that you've stumbled onto evidence of a major art theft ring that law enforcement has been trying to crack for years. The bad news is that you've made some very dangerous people very angry."
She picked up the photograph of the painting with my signature.
"This is the most interesting piece, though. According to this authentication certificate, this painting was created by someone named L. Carter in 1987."
My stomach dropped. "1987? I wasn't even born until 1997."
"Exactly. Which means either someone forged your signature on a thirty-year-old painting, or..."
"Or what?"
Sarah looked at Tommy, then back at me.
"Or L. Carter isn't you."
The room felt like it was spinning. I gripped the edge of Sarah's desk to steady myself.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying there might be another artist with your initials who painted this piece. Someone whose work is similar enough to yours that it could be mistaken for the same person."
"That's impossible. My style is too distinctive."
"Is it? Or did you unconsciously develop a style similar to someone else's work?"
I thought about all the art books I'd studied over the years, all the paintings I'd admired in museums and online galleries. It was possible, I supposed, that I'd been influenced by another artist's technique without realizing it.
"Sarah, can you find out who L. Carter was in 1987?"
"I can try. But Lucy, while I'm researching, you need to stay safe. These people have already killed once."
"Where am I supposed to go? I can't go home, I can't go to work..."
"You can stay with me," Tommy said immediately.
"No. If they're watching me, they might be watching you too."
Sarah was quiet for a moment, thinking.
"I have a safe house," she said finally. "Nothing fancy, but it's secure and off the grid. Insurance companies use it for witnesses in high-value theft cases."
"A safe house? This really is like something out of a movie."
"Lucy, this is real life, and real life is sometimes more dangerous than movies. The art world might seem civilized, but there's serious money involved. People kill for a lot less than what's documented in these papers."
Three hours later, I sat in a small apartment above a bakery in Lincoln Park, watching the street through curtains that smelled like flour and cinnamon. Sarah had stocked the place with groceries and given me a secure phone that couldn't be traced.
"I'll call you when I have information about L. Carter," she'd said before leaving. "Don't answer the door for anyone except me or Tommy."
Now, as evening fell over Chicago, I found myself alone with Victoria's documents and too many questions.
Who was the other L. Carter? Why did their painting style match mine so closely? And what did any of this have to do with Rebecca Stone's murder?
My new phone buzzed with a text from Tommy: Sarah found something. She's coming over in an hour.
I stared out at the street, watching normal people live their normal lives, and wondered if I'd ever feel safe again.
Whatever Sarah had discovered about L. Carter, I had a feeling it was going to change everything.
Again.