Free Unleashed by Sigmund Brouwer

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