Portrait of Conspiracy

By J. M. Davis

What happens in Paris does not stay in Paris. A police detective places her career at risk, when she decides to help a wealthy man search for a woman who has been missing for seven years.

Philip Lewellan discovers a mysterious painting. He’s sure it’s proof his missing wife is alive ... and may be living somewhere with a child, his daughter. The thought of being a father is more than enough to get Philip to turn to the one person who might believe him.

Sandra Copeland, the original detective assigned to the missing-persons case, chased far too many bogus leads, after Philip—against her advice—offered a million dollar reward. Legitimate private investigators quit taking Philip’s money. Nothing could be found, or any evidence to indicate Renée might be alive. Copeland is not about to reopen an inactive seven-year-old missing-persons case based on what could only be another bogus lead. That is, until she sees a photo of the oil painting Philip has found in a New York art gallery. Their investigation unearths a staggering conspiracy impossible to believe, or to ignore.

Not just another missing wife story, this gripping tale mixes elements of mystery, romance, and danger, bringing a thrilling new twist to an old tale of greed and vice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. M. Davis
• Release date: Jul 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301740192

J. M. Davis

Jim Davis is the author of Portrait of Conspiracy, Tough As They Come, A Woman To Die For, Murder and Mayham, The Ghost of Leonard Korn, The Durley Incident, No Tears For Jack, Prom Friday, The Storekeeper, and The Last Violin. Over a period of two decades, he traveled to twenty foreign countries and made the first cellular telephone call in the country of Russia. In 1988, he thought he'd found Elvis alive on the Island of Tortola. Awakened from a dream, he learned an Elvis Impersonator had begun singing in the bar located directly beneath his second floor room. Jim lives with his wife in the Boston Mountains. He writes mystery/suspense novels, novellas, and short stories.

Book preview

A fist sized lump formed in Philip’s throat when his eyes confirmed what his heart wanted to believe. Light reflected off the glossy surface of the art gallery brochure. An adorable little girl, a child he had never seen, gazed at her mother. The name of the painting, My Sweet Beautiful Rachel, erased any remaining doubt.

Renée is alive. We have a daughter.

The jet engine’s pitch changed and the plane began its descent toward Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. Philip turned toward the young woman seated to his right. Through the window, a cloud passed in the distance. Wearing white jeans, a pink Hard Rock Café T-shirt, and matching flip-flops, he guessed her to be a college student returning home for a summer break.

Her hand flipped through pages of Cruising World, the magazine he had purchased at La Guardia before boarding the plane. Appearing to be oblivious to his emotional reaction, he raised the brochure and asked, Where did you get this?

She looked up from the magazine and said, I’m not sure, before lowering her head again.

Not sure?

Please, I hate to trouble you, but it’s important.

She glanced out the window before turning her head toward him. I took a shortcut through one of those big hotels with entrances on two different streets. Several pamphlets and brochures were in a rack. I liked the picture on that one, so I grabbed it on my way out. Sorry, mister, I don’t remember the name of the hotel.

May I keep it?

She flipped through another page. Sure.

He gazed at the portrait. Would it be enough to get the police to reopen the case? No one had been able to find anything, not even her car. All active searches ceased when legitimate private investigators quit taking his money.

Statistically speaking, his wife was dead. Everyone involved in the case either felt that way or had said as much to him. Why had no one been able to find her? Confronting one possibility he had never considered, he tried to think of anything he had done. If she left voluntarily, why for God’s sake had she gone into hiding and kept his daughter from him? Rachel’s first words, her first steps; he had missed so much. He blinked away tears.

By the time the wheels of the plane touched down, he had organized his plan to return to New York. The certainty his wife and child were alive had brought back all the hope and optimism the last seven years had drained from him.

I have a daughter played over and over in his head. Nothing could stop him from finding her.

The young woman broke the silence as the plane neared the gate. Thanks for letting me read your magazine. She offered it to him.

He raised the palm of his hand. Please, keep it.

Thanks, but I’m not really into boats that much.

He took it and tucked it away.

She gathered a small backpack from beneath the seat.

My name is Philip Lewellan.

It’s nice to meet you, she said. I’m … I’m Carla.

Nice to meet you, Carla. He glanced at his watch.

Do you have a connecting flight?

Not tonight, but I’m hoping to catch one out in the morning. I have to get to New York City as soon as possible.

She knitted her brows. We just came from there.

It’s a long story. What about you? Are you home?

Almost, I work at the Red Bird Grill in Lubbock. They expect me back tomorrow morning at six o’clock sharp. My aunt paid for the trip. I wouldn’t have been in New York otherwise. She still has high hopes for me. If you’re ever in town, stop by. We serve a good breakfast.

* * *

After she and Lewellan cleared the arrival gate area, she slowed to allow him to get ahead of her. He appeared to be in his early thirties, much younger than she expected. Why had she jabbered on so much? Nervous, scared, whatever, she had done her part. Jessica hoped throwing out the name Carla had not been her biggest mistake.

She watched Philip leave the airport terminal. His confident stride, his hair, his clothes, everything about him indicated money and a lot of it. He could be featured in an upscale men’s clothing photo shoot without any additional prep work. His physical appearance was one thing, but his tears and emotional reaction to the photo had conveyed much more.

He didn’t try to kill that woman, he loved her.

She dialed the number for her contact in New York. When he answered, she said, He took the brochure like you said he would.

Did you keep your mouth shut?

I did exactly what you told me. Now, I want you to follow through on your end of the deal.

The charges have been dropped. You’re free to go. You can pick up your ticket at the counter. You have one more thing to do.

She squeezed the phone. Wait. You said all I had to do was make sure he saw the picture on the brochure.

Get out of Texas and never go back unless you want to be buried there.

No problem. I don’t ever want to see you again either.

Where are you going?

None of your damn business, she replied.

Have a great life, the man said sarcastically.

She slammed her cell phone shut and walked toward the ticket counter. What had she done to a man named Philip Lewellan—a man who had fought back tears. More importantly, why had Barletto threatened her? Why did he ask her where … hell it wouldn’t be hard for him to figure that out. Her stomach churned.

She placed another call. A woman answered.

I’m going to be a few days later than I told you.

Are you okay? Has something happened?

I’m fine, Momma. There’s something I need to take care of first.

I’ve been so worried about you. Please be careful.

She looked up and realized she was next in line. I have to go now. I love you.

Stepping up to the ticket counter, she said, My name is Jessica Riddling. I should have a one way open e-ticket.

The ticket agent entered her name and waited for her computer screen to update.

Decision time. Go home and hope Barletto wouldn’t come after her, or go on the run. His sarcasm was a dead giveaway. He’d never planned to let her go. If she was going to run, she’d need help. She remembered what Philip had said, I’m hoping to catch a flight out in the morning. She wasn’t ready to confront him yet. Screwing up a police investigation could land her back in jail, or worse, she would end up dead, if Barletto got to her first.

I want to go to New York. Anything, but an early morning flight.

Chapter 2

The plane landed at La Guardia fifteen minutes later than scheduled. His carryon bag strapped over his shoulder, Philip hurried through the terminal. After he passed through the doorway, marked Ground Transportation, he scanned the area until he spotted a man wearing a traditional chauffeur’s uniform. The man, a cap covering most of his gray hair, noticed him and approached.

Hi, Joseph.

Joseph reached for his bag. Welcome back, Mr. Lewellan. I must be losing my mind. It seems like only yesterday you flew out of here.

Trying to appear amused, Philip said, You’re not losing your mind. His forced smile faded. I hope I haven’t lost mine.

He jumped in the limousine and handed an address to Joseph. Take me here first, then the hotel.

The James Walker Chapman Art Gallery it is.

Forty minutes later, Joseph pulled the limousine over and stopped.

Philip gazed out the window. Are you sure this is the right place?

Yes, sir. Joseph pointed to an old brick structure packed between two scruffy looking facades. The one in the center has to be it.

Wait here. Philip said.

The hand-carved wooden door, dried and cracked from sun and rain, could have used some stain. A brass nameplate, tarnished so dark the raised letters James Walker Chapman Art Gallery were almost unreadable, confirmed he had arrived at the correct location.

The foyer was well maintained, nothing like the exterior of the building. Pale green walls lined the entry. The odor of fresh paint hung in the air as he glanced at the four paintings displayed in the hallway, two on each side of two open archways leading to two rooms, one to his left and one to his right. At the end of the hallway a third open archway opposite the entry door allowed a limited view of a third room. More paintings displayed on its walls.

Hello, Philip called.

There was no response.

He raised his voice and tried again. Is anyone here? Again, no response. You’d think someone would be delighted to greet a customer entering this place.

Against the wall on the other side of the archway to his left were landscapes. Others hung above them. Upon entering the room, the sound of a muted alarm in the background disrupted the only other sound, a whistling return air vent in the ceiling. Gazing around the room, a portrait displayed on the wall to his right caught his attention. Illuminated by a light mounted above it, what he had come for was a mere few steps away. He walked close enough to reach out and touch it.

The brochure photo had not done it justice. The details were flawless. Her brown eyes looked happy and inquiring, the way he remembered. Her hair had been longer the day she disappeared, but the color was right, dark brown, almost black. Scanning down the painting he focused on the smile that had stolen his heart the moment he first saw her. All of her features, so real, he wanted to reach out for her. And the necklace, painted in exquisite quality. The pearls appeared almost three dimensional. The overlapping twists and unique weave of the platinum links connected each pearl to the next. Hair pulled back over her right ear, exposed one of the matching black pearl earrings. The necklace and earrings, his gift to Renée on their second wedding anniversary, were his own custom design.

Farther down, the little girl, with blue eyes, looked up at her mother. Her eyes and hair color like his, but she had her mother’s mouth. She’s precious. His heart raced.

The alarm went silent. Moments later, approaching footsteps on the black and white ceramic tiled floor preceded a short man with white hair at the doorway. In his late fifties or early sixties, he appeared to take a quick assessment. His eyes cut a path from head to toe as he approached.

Beautiful, isn’t she.

Philip stared at the man.

I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to interrupt your concentration. I’m here to help. If you have any questions, it would be my pleasure to address them.

What can you tell me about this painting?

The man smiled and extended his hand. Roscoe Chapman.

He grabbed his hand and shook it. Philip Lewellan.

Randellini is an artist best known for his life-like portraits in oil. Do you notice how her dark brown eyes seem to study us as closely as we study her?

Yes, I know those eyes.

Chapman hesitated, and then said, Randellini captures the soul of a woman better than most artists of our time. Her hair looks so real it makes you feel even the smallest breeze would blow it across her face.

Yes, thank you. Please tell me what else you know about this painting.

Chapman glanced at it. I was quite surprised when it arrived. I don’t get many from him.

I’m interested in finding out about the woman in the portrait. Do you know who she is?

Chapman put his hand to his chin. That’s strange.

What’s strange?

Another man came in here a few days ago and asked me the same question.

Who was the gentleman?

Chapman lowered his hand and rolled his eyes. Sir, he was no gentleman. I can assure you. He never gave me his name. He was displeased when I told him Rudolf Randellini died over twelve years ago, and I had no way of knowing who the woman was. He stormed out of here mumbling words I don’t care to repeat.

Philip turned and gazed at the little girl. This work is more recent than that, within the last year or two. He turned toward Chapman. You have no information in your files to help me find her?

Chapman shook his head. Most definitely not, but you are correct, sir. I was merely stating what I told the other man. After he left, I decided to do some checking. I don’t know as much about art as my father. This gallery was his passion. After he became ill, he tried to teach me the business. Unfortunately, it was too late by then.

I’m truly sorry about your father, but I must find this woman.

Thank you, sir. Rudolf and my father were close friends. My father, deeply saddened by Rudolf’s death, sold many of his paintings over the years. This one was not done by Rudolf Randellini. Regrettably, I gave the other man erroneous information. Not intentionally, of course, but all the same I believe it probably cost me the sale.

This painting is a fake?

Chapman jerked his head up, raised his voice slightly and said, No, sir, it is not.

Pointing to the signature, Philip said, It’s signed R Randellini. What else am I to think?

I see your point, sir, but I can explain. This one was shipped with two other older paintings from France. I assumed all three were from Rudolf’s collection. I have since learned Rudolf’s son, Ramsel painted this portrait, not his father, Rudolf.

You described how Randellini could—

Capture the soul of a woman better than most artists of our time. Yes, sir, the artist capable of matching Rudolf’s ability is Rudolf’s son, Ramsel.

He glared at Chapman. One hoped to get simple straight forward information, but Chapman’s approach seemed to be anything but that.

If you’re disappointed, sir, I have the two by Ru—

I’m only interested in paintings of this woman.

Chapman shook his head. I only have this one of her.

Do you know when Ramsel completed it?

As you thought, within the last year. After I reviewed the records more closely, I realized Rudolf’s son had to be the artist.

Where can I find him?

I suppose I could get that information for you.

Picking up on Chapman’s hint, he asked, How much for the painting?

I can let you have it for five thousand.

It’s the proof he needed. I wish to take it with me along with the information on Ramsel Randellini. Pulling a credit card from his wallet brought a smile to Chapman’s face.

Yes, of course, responded Chapman. He beamed and grabbed the card. It will only take me a moment, sir. He turned and walked toward his office.

While he waited for Chapman to run the card, Philip read the name of the portrait again. My Sweet Beautiful Rachel. Painted within the last year. He removed his cell phone and took several photos of the painting. He should call Copeland. No one knew more about the case. But would she be willing to help him after what he had put her through?

At the time, the detective seemed too young and inexperienced to lead the investigation. His requests for a more seasoned person had been denied. He was told Detective Sandra Copeland had outperformed her equals as well as older and more experienced detectives. If anyone could find his wife, she would.

His thoughts were interrupted once again by the sound of footsteps. Chapman approached with a frown. I have bad news. I should have checked the status of the painting after I returned from lunch. My assistant accepted an offer while I was out. I’m sorry, but this painting is no longer available. He held out the credit card.

Philip took it and said, Can you tell me who made the offer?

That’s not our policy. My assistant accepted it and confirmed the sale by e-mail.

Tell them you have another buyer for the painting.

Chapman stared at him. Another buyer? I’m afraid I don’t understand.

I’ll pay them three times the price they paid you for the painting. In addition, you could earn a nice fee. Let’s say, ten thousand for brokering the deal, if you can get it done today.

Chapman’s eyes widened. I’ll try my best, sir.

That was more like it. He held out a business card. I expect to hear from you no later than this evening. Do you have the information on Randellini?

Yes, Chapman said, taking the card. He lives in Paris, but like his late father, spends a lot of time in New York. He maintains his father’s old studio apartment, not far from the Brooklyn Bridge. In fact, according to my assistant, he could be in town as we speak.

Chapman handed him a piece of paper. Here’s the address. I’m sorry I can’t give you a telephone number. Ramsel detests them, but I’m told he often dines at the River Café, a nice restaurant near the bridge. If he’s not at his apartment, you might find him there this evening.

Thank you. He took the paper and glanced at the address. Brooklyn.

It is I who want to thank you, sir. Please accept my apologies for my lack of knowledge about the woman in the painting.

Philip left the gallery. As he approached the limo, Joseph opened the rear door. He handed Joseph the address. Take me to this address.

Before he closed the door, Joseph glanced at it and said, Brooklyn it is.

What if Chapman doesn’t come through? Without physical evidence, getting Copeland out of Dallas would be like getting Washington out of the dollar bill. There had to be a way to get her to New York, painting or no painting in hand.

Joseph started the car. Philip pushed the button that lowered the privacy window. Joseph, I need to make stop before we cross the bridge.

Chapter 3

Dallas Police Detective Sandra Copeland sat at her desk reviewing an investigative report. In an attempt to gain ground, she had skipped lunch again. Her new partner had made things better. For a change, he pulled his weight in their missing-persons case load.

Unfortunately, Detective Kevin Franks posed a new problem. He had shown plenty of interest in her. Dating him was out of the question. They’d be yanked apart at even the hint of a romantic relationship. She’d figure out a way to handle the situation. But at age 32, how long could she keep her social life on indefinite hold?

Her desk phone rang. The flashing light, the last in a row of ten, indicated a call on her direct line. The unlisted number given out to family members of missing persons.

Copeland.

Detective Copeland? Philip Lewellan.

Mr. Lewellan, it’s been a long time.

About three years.

I’m sorry, but we have no new information about your wife.

I’ve always assumed you’d call me if you did, Philip said.

Yes, sir, I would. What can I do for you?

Do you remember our last conversation?

She leaned back in her chair. Why don’t you refresh my memory?

You told me there was nothing further you could do without physical evidence.

I recall saying something like that.

And what else you said?

Where’s he going with this? What’s your point, Mr. Lewellan? She straightened in her seat and leaned forward.

I’ve found proof that my wife and child are alive and I need your help.

She glanced at her partner. Kevin sitting at his desk less than three feet from hers was obviously listening to her side of the conversation. She moved the receiver to left hand and picked up a pen. What kind of proof?

Twenty minutes ago, I left an art gallery where an oil painting of my wife and child is on display. The painting is recent and the child appears to be the right age. I tried to purchase it, but someone else beat me to it.

She frowned and tossed the pen back onto her desk. Mr. Lewellan, I don’t think an oil painting is proof they’re alive. It’s probably a painting of a woman who looks like your wife.

I thought you’d give me a little more credit than that. I’m not stupid.

I never meant to imply─

Of course you didn’t. The name of the artist is Randellini. I’m going to find him. I’ve had the brochure scanned and I’m sending the image to you. I’m hoping you’ll be willing to meet me in New York City tomorrow. My cell phone number and your flight information will be in the e-mail. I can pick you up at the airport.

Why won’t he accept the fact his wife is dead and never coming back? She couldn’t let this start all over again. I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. I can’t imagine getting travel authorization based on an oil painting.

There was no response.

Are you still there? she asked.

Yes, I was considering my other options, since you don’t want to help me.

You’re well aware I was forced to halt all active search activity. And that order came from a high enough level that not even you were able get it overridden.

I know how much your department spent chasing down bogus leads. I spent twenty times that much on private investigators. This won’t cost your department anything but your time. I’m willing to cover that if necessary, but I realize I’m still asking a lot.

It’s not that I don’t want to help you, but my hands are tied. I have other cases, active cases.

I’m asking for twenty-four hours. If you’re convinced there’s nothing to what I’ve found, I’ll send you back to Dallas in the First Class cabin.

Twenty-four hours.

She shook her head once. Why was she even considering it?

Your flight arrives at La Guardia at 1:20 tomorrow afternoon. I have an e-ticket confirmed for you on the seven o’clock flight tomorrow morning.

I can’t promise you anything without the lieutenant’s approval. A good excuse when she comes to her senses.

You’re not coming, are you?

I told you I have to get the lieutenant’s approval, she said, wishing her tone had not been so harsh. Even Kevin looked away.

After a few moments of silence, Philip asked, Can you at least promise me you’ll look at the picture I’m sending you?

That, I can promise. She reeled off her e-mail address and hung up.

Kevin gazed at her eagerly. Let’s have it.

Philip Lewellan thinks he’s found proof his wife and child are alive.

Never heard of him.

It’s an old case, before you transferred to the department. Seven years ago, he went to London on business. When he returned to his home in Dallas, his wife was gone. She’s hasn’t been seen or heard from since. She was four months pregnant at the time.

Seven years?

She nodded. Exactly my thought.

He spun around in his chair to face her. So what did he find?

An oil painting.

How does it prove they’re alive?

He believes it’s a recent painting of his wife and child.

Sounds like the husband in our last case.

Lewellan’s actions didn’t add up to a murdering husband.

How so?

Nothing indicated another woman. There was no financial gain by her death. But the most compelling reason I don’t think he had anything to do with her disappearance was his unborn child’s nursery. When I was forced to put the case on inactive status, I went to his home to tell him. He showed me the nursery he and his wife had prepared. His voice cracked looking in the empty crib. I doubt any man has been more ready to be a father than Philip Lewellan. Struggling to fight back tears, he vowed he would keep searching until they were found. He did everything humanly possible. Never withdrawing the million dollar reward he offered for information leading to their safe recovery.

Maybe a reward he knew he wouldn’t have to pay. Kevin flipped his pen in the air and caught it. Do you really think she could be alive?

No, she said shaking her head. But from his tone, he wants to believe they are. A far different tone than three years ago when he seemed ready to give up on life

I bet. Killing your pregnant wife might do that to a man.

She stared at him. I was that way once.

Pregnant?

No! Suspecting the husband is the bad guy in every case where a wife disappeared.

Since I’ve been here, we’ve closed three cases where they were.

We’ve closed that many where women ran away for a new life.

Kevin shook his head. Well, Lewellan’s wife didn’t, or she would have turned up somewhere by now. In my book, he’s still a suspect.

She laughed. You have a few things to learn.

Like what?

When police stop actively searching, murdering husbands give up looking. You might want to put that in your book.

He swung back around in his chair and tossed his pen on his desk. I’ll try to keep an open mind.

Good idea.

She checked her e-mail and clicked on the one from Lewellan. There was an attachment. A double click, an image started filling the screen from the top down.

She snatched a file folder from her lower left desk drawer. Opened it, retrieved a photo of Renée Lewellan, a photocopy of a fingerprint card, and the twenty-eight page summary of notes she’d made during her investigation.

Kevin glanced at the label on the folder. You’ve got to be kidding.

Ignoring his comment, she spread the documents out on her desk.

How did you end up with that fingerprint card?

It’s a copy of the original. Her prints were on several of her personal items in their master bathroom. I wanted them entered into the database in case we needed to ID a body. I also collected strands of hair from one of her brushes.

You’ve kept a closed case file on a missing person in your desk for seven years? He shook his head. No wonder your desk looks like a disaster area.

For the record, it’s not closed. It’s inactive. And the official file is kept in the record’s department downstairs. This one has a photograph of Renée Lewellan and a copy of my report. I used to keep short files of photos and physical descriptions, inactive cases and data in my desk, before we had everything put on computers. It was a good way to quickly compare notes to forensic reports I received from the state lab.

Maybe I should do that too, Kevin said sarcastically. Or, I could operate in the modern world and continue to use the department’s computerized file system.

When the full image filled the screen, she held the photo of Renée next to it. Hmmm.

Could it really be her?

Kevin, I’d like your opinion on this.

He stepped over to her desk.

Holding the photo next to the computer screen, she asked, What do you think?

She’s beautiful.

"That’s not what I