The three of them scattered, each taking a flashlight with them to minimize the number of lights they had to turn on, but maximize the illuminated areas they were searching.
Sloane walked into the den and swept the room with her flashlight. The wingback chair was kitty-cornered on the left at the front of the room, flanked by small wooden side tables. There was an enormous bookcase that covered the full extent of the far wall. But the shelves were constructed of solid mahogany. They weighed a ton, and Sloane doubted that she’d find a spring-activated secret panel, like in the old movies, that would allow her access by pressing the correct shelf.
The rear left side of the room had a fireplace. Beside it was a sideboard, and a full liquor cabinet to accompany it. Again, heavy as a rock, and not a practical spot to conceal a door for a man who wanted frequent access to a gallery of stolen paintings.
Sloane crossed over to the right wall. There was a bay window spanning most of it, so that area was out. But there was a space between where the window ended and the adjacent wall where the bookcase began. The only thing filling that spot was a low table, which contained a vase of daisies, a photo album, and a framed picture of Sophie, smiling at her nursery school graduation.
Gently, Sloane tugged at the table. It moved easily, so easily that it surprised her. She looked more closely and saw that the table was made out of plywood, painted to match the rest of the red-brown furniture, but light as a feather.
She lifted it out of the way and stepped into the barely noticeable corner, which was hidden by the depth of the bookcase. She aimed her flashlight at the three-foot section of the now-exposed wall.
The outline of the door was clear. So was the dead bolt that stood between Sloane and her goal.
“Guys,” she called out. “I’ve got something.”
The sound of thudding footsteps came from two different directions. An instant later, both Derek and Rich appeared, shining their flashlights around the room.
“Over here,” Sloane instructed.
They joined her, and Derek gave a triumphant grunt. “This is it. Sloane, your instincts come through again.”
“Except I have no clue how to get past that dead bolt.”
“The old-fashioned way.” Derek walked over to the fireplace, picked up one of the heavy andirons, and carried it back to use as a battering ram. He began whacking at the lock. The door shuddered with each strike. It took time and patience, but at last the wood around the lock began to give—more, a little more—until finally it gave out.
Derek shoved open the door and groped on the inside wall until he found a light switch. He flipped it on, revealing a long, winding staircase. “Let’s go.”
They trekked down the stairs, Derek leading the way.
At the foot of the stairs was another light switch. Derek flipped this one on, too, just as all three of them reached the base of the stairs.
The room was flooded by a soft, iridescent light, revealing the entirety of Wallace’s private sanctum—and all of its contents.
“Holy shit,” Derek blurted out, staring around at the wealth of paintings covering the walls.
It was a full, private, and very personal art gallery.
There were over two dozen paintings, some of them incredibly valuable—masterpieces by Renoir or Cassatt—others far less pricey, whose signatures labeled them as up-and-coming artists, plus a few Hamptons locals.
Every painting depicted a little girl, ranging in age between two and six. Each child emanated joy and exuberance—some of them running through fields, others picking flowers, splashing in the ocean, or chasing butterflies.
All of them celebrating life.
The gallery Wallace had created was devoid of furnishings, with the exception of a wingback chair in the dead center of the room with a small end table beside it. On the table were a bottle of bourbon, a lowball glass, and a neatly stacked pile of snapshots. The leather chair was identical to the one upstairs, with the additional feature of being able to swivel 360 degrees—obviously to allow Wallace full viewing options.
There was one bare spot on the far wall directly across from the staircase, clearly awaiting the painting that would put the crowning touch on Wallace’s collection. Once it was hung in its place of honor, the tribute would be complete.
Wordlessly, Sloane scanned the room, her gaze lingering on certain paintings. Then, she picked up the snapshots and sifted through them, feeling tears sting behind her eyes. They were all photos of Sophie. They all captured her at different moments, in different settings.
But they all captured her sense of pure joy.
Raising her head, Sloane walked over to one painting that reminded her so much of one of the photos in her hand. It was a Cassatt, and the little girl in it was laughing, frolicking outdoors, eyes bright with wonder. Her hair was streaming out all around her as she dashed about with all the delight and innocence of childhood. God, she looked so much like Sophie. The same golden brown hair and dancing eyes. The same exuberance. Alive, vital, filled with a love of life and the promise of tomorrow.
A promise she’d been deprived of. Just as her father had been deprived of sharing it with her.
Rich was already across the room, examining the paintings. “Astonishing masterpieces,” he murmured. “There’s a work by Bouguereau, one by Rembrandt…unbelievable. The value of the paintings in this room—I can only begin to imagine.” He walked over to the one empty space on the wall. “This is obviously meant for the final painting in Johnson’s private gallery,” he concluded, half to himself. “I wonder which one he has in mind. Which work of art would belong here? Johnson wouldn’t settle for anything less than the perfect choice.”
“It’s probably a moot point,” Derek reminded Rich. “I doubt he and Johnny Liu are doing any more business, so Johnson won’t be getting that final painting after all.”