Chapter 6: Unit 14
Brennan Street was on the east side of the city, the kind of block that hadn't decided yet whether it was becoming something or staying exactly what it was — a self-storage facility next to a tile warehouse next to a place that repaired commercial refrigerators.
The facility manager was a heavyset man named Pete who checked my ID against a printed list without looking up, handed me a clipboard to sign, and pointed me toward the second row.
"Unit 14 is at the far end," he said.
"Key should fit the padlock."
It did.
The door rolled up with the particular sound of metal that hasn't moved in a while — a low grinding complaint, then a rush of stale air.
I stood in the entrance for a moment before I stepped in.
The unit was roughly the size of a large bedroom.
It was clean.
Organized.
Russell had always been organized.
Along the left wall: four banker's boxes, labeled in his handwriting.
Along the right: a metal filing cabinet, locked, with a small adhesive note on the front that said *Gerald — ask him for the secondary key.* In the center of the floor, covered with a canvas drop cloth: something large and rectangular.
I went to the banker's boxes first.
The labels read: *CR Correspondence.
CR Financials.
CR Legal — Original.
CR Legal — Copies.*
CR.
Callum Reeve.
I opened the first box.
Inside: printed emails, sorted by date, going back nine years.
I pulled one from near the top.
It was from Callum to Russell, and the tone of it made me set it down and take a breath before I continued.
*You think you can just walk away from this.
You can't.
I have everything.
Every conversation.
Every decision you signed off on.
If you push this, I will make sure the people who matter to you understand exactly who you are.*
I pulled another.
*Russell — last chance.
Return my share of the Harwick property at fair market value or I go public.
You know what I mean by public.*
I put the lid back on the box.
I went to the filing cabinet.
I couldn't open it without Gerald's key, but I noted the note, took a photo of it with my phone.
Then I turned to the thing under the drop cloth.
I pulled the canvas off.
It was a painting.
Large — nearly four feet wide.
A landscape, oils, clearly old.
A countryside scene, rolling hills, a farmhouse in the distance.
Nothing remarkable about the subject.
But taped to the back of the frame was a folded sheet of paper.
I peeled it free carefully.
It was a certificate of authenticity from an auction house in London.
The painting had sold at auction eleven years ago for two hundred and forty thousand pounds.
Below the certificate, in Russell's handwriting: *This was never Callum's to sell.
Provenance attached.
Do not let him claim it.*
A second sheet behind the first: a chain of ownership going back forty years.
Russell's name appeared twice — once as original buyer, once as the name the painting had been fraudulently transferred away from.
My phone rang.
Gerald Holt.
"I was going to call you," I said.
"I know." His voice was careful.
"I've just had a call from a firm representing a Callum Reeve.
They've filed for emergency injunctive relief.
They're attempting to freeze the estate assets pending their claim."
"Can they do that?"
"They can attempt it.
A judge will decide within forty-eight hours whether to grant the freeze." A pause.
"I need to know — have you accessed the storage unit yet?"
"I'm standing in it."
Silence on his end.
Then: "Don't move anything.
Don't remove anything.
I'm sending a colleague to meet you there within the hour.
His name is David Park.
He handles litigation." Another pause.
"Russell told me, if it ever came to this, that the unit contained everything we needed.
I'm hoping he was right."
I looked at the four banker's boxes.
The locked filing cabinet.
May you like
The painting with its taped certificate.
"He was right," I said.
