Chapter 5 - The Camera Cards
The number 214 followed me all the way through the night.
It sat in my head while nurses checked Leo’s medication.
It stayed there while Maya finally fell asleep in the recliner with one hand wrapped around the edge of my shirt.
It was still there when Detective Ortiz returned at six the next morning carrying a cardboard evidence box and looking like he had forgotten what sleep was.
“You look terrible,” I said.
“You look expensive.”
“That was almost funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Ortiz set the box on a counter in the family consultation room.
Daniel Mercer arrived ten minutes later with coffee for himself and nothing for me.
I noticed.
He noticed me noticing.
“You have people for coffee.”
“I am reconsidering our professional relationship.”
Caroline stayed with the children while we met.
Ortiz opened a folder.
“We recovered part of the deleted footage from the basement camera.”
Every joke disappeared.
“How much?”
“Enough to establish a pattern.”
I looked toward the wall separating us from Leo’s room.
“Do I need to see it?”
Ortiz did not answer immediately.
“That depends on why you want to.”
“To understand what happened.”
“You already understand enough to protect them.”
I stared at him.
He continued.
“There are things a child should not have had to live through, and there are things an uncle does not need burned into his memory to believe him.”
That was the first time anyone had told me not to look at evidence and made me want to listen.
“Tell me what matters.”
Ortiz nodded.
“The footage confirms the children were confined downstairs repeatedly.”
“How long at a time?”
“Varied.”
“Hours?”
“Yes.”
“Overnight?”
He paused.
“Yes.”
Daniel looked down at the table.
I kept my eyes on Ortiz.
“Rebecca?”
“Appears in several clips.”
“Anyone else?”
“That’s where this changes.”
He slid a still photograph from the folder.
The image was grainy.
A man stood near the basement door with his back turned to the camera.
He wore dark slacks and a light jacket.
His face was not visible.
“Who is he?”
“We don’t know.”
“When was this?”
“Twenty-three days ago.”
I counted backward automatically.
A little over two months after Ethan died.
“What did he do?”
“Spoke to Rebecca at the top of the stairs.”
“Could the camera record audio?”
“Yes.”
“What did they say?”
Ortiz opened a transcript.
“We only have pieces because the door was mostly closed.”
He read.
“Male voice: ‘He should have left it alone.’”
A second line.
“Rebecca: ‘You told me this would be finished.’”
A third.
“Male voice: ‘It will be, if you stop panicking.’”
My skin went cold.
Daniel leaned forward.
“Any names?”
“One.”
Ortiz looked at me.
“Thomas.”
I frowned.
“In what context?”
“Rebecca says, ‘Thomas is starting to call more.’”
“And the man?”
“He says, ‘Then keep him away.’”
I sat back.
For three months, every canceled visit had sounded like grief.
Now I heard strategy.
“They knew I was calling.”
“Yes.”
“They were actively keeping the children from me.”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
Daniel pointed at the still photograph.
“Any physical identifiers?”
“Height around six feet.”
“Age?”
“Unknown.”
“Voice match?”
“We’re working on it.”
I looked at the man’s hands.
One was visible near the banister.
A ring caught the camera light.
“Zoom that.”
Ortiz shook his head.
“We already did.”
He handed me another image.
The ring was rectangular, silver or platinum, with a dark center.
Daniel frowned.
“College ring?”
“Maybe.”
I stared at it.
Something about it felt familiar.
Not the exact ring.
The shape.
A memory from a banquet.
A handshake.
Victor Hale wore a black onyx signet ring.
I had noticed it because he wore almost no other jewelry.
“Show me a current photo of Victor Hale.”
Ortiz’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“The ring.”
Daniel pulled out his phone and searched public images.
He found one from a hospital fundraiser.
Victor stood beside the mayor with his left hand resting on a podium.
The ring was there.
Dark stone.
Rectangular face.
Same hand.
Daniel enlarged it.
“Could be similar.”
Ortiz took the phone.
“Could be.”
“You don’t sound impressed.”
“I sound like someone who enjoys warrants that survive defense attorneys.”
Fair enough.
Ortiz slid another photograph toward me.
“This is more interesting.”
It showed the basement floor.
Near one mattress was a child’s block.
A wooden cube painted blue.
On one side was the number two.
On another was the number one.
I looked up.
“214.”
Daniel leaned closer.
“You think Ethan’s number refers to blocks?”
“No.”
But my mind was moving.
Leo was six.
Ethan loved puzzles.
When we were boys, he used to hide my birthday gifts and leave numbered clues because he thought handing someone a package was boring.
Two-one-four could be a room.
A locker.
A code.
A page.
Or a sequence only Leo would recognize.
“Ask Leo about the number,” Daniel said.
Ortiz immediately shook his head.
“No leading questions.”
“I’m his attorney, not an interrogator.”
“He is a child witness.”
The two men stared at each other.
I cut in.
“We do it properly.”
Ortiz looked mildly surprised.
“I’m becoming a good influence on you.”
“Do not get carried away.”
The forensic child interviewer arrived that afternoon.
Her name was Dr. Anna Keller.
She explained that Leo would be interviewed once, in a child-friendly room, with trained observers behind one-way glass.
Maya would have a separate developmentally appropriate session only if necessary.
“No coaching,” Dr. Keller said.
“I know.”
“No telling him what Rebecca did or did not do.”
“I know.”
“No promising outcomes.”
“I know.”
She looked at me.
“You say that like someone has already lectured you.”
“Several people.”
“Good.”
Leo did not want to go into the interview room until he saw that the door had a window.
He touched the glass.
“Can Uncle Thomas see me?”
Dr. Keller smiled.
“He’ll be nearby.”
“Can Maya stay with him?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“Don’t leave.”
“I won’t.”
He went inside.
I sat behind the observation glass with Ortiz and Caroline.
Maya colored at a small table beside me.
Dr. Keller started with simple questions.
School.
Favorite food.
His father.
Leo smiled when he talked about Ethan.
“My dad was good at numbers.”
“What kind of numbers?” Dr. Keller asked.
“All numbers.”
“He helped people with money.”
“Did he play games with you?”
Leo nodded.
“Treasure games.”
My attention sharpened.
“What kind of treasure games?”
“He hid stuff and made clues.”
“Do you remember any clues?”
“Sometimes numbers.”
Dr. Keller did not react.
“Like what?”
Leo shrugged.
“Room numbers.”
My pulse kicked.
“What rooms?”
“Hotel rooms when we traveled.”
He smiled.
“Dad said hotels were easy because every door already had a number.”
Dr. Keller continued naturally.
“Did your dad ever give you a special number?”
Leo’s face changed.
He looked down at his hands.
“Maybe.”
“What number?”
“Two-one-four.”
I felt Caroline turn toward me.
Dr. Keller stayed calm.
“What does two-one-four mean?”
Leo whispered, “The room with the red chair.”
I had no idea what that meant.
“Where is the room with the red chair?”
“At Dad’s work.”
Ethan’s work had been a downtown accounting firm.
Ortiz immediately took out his phone.
Dr. Keller asked, “What happened in that room?”
Leo rubbed his thumb against his finger.
“Dad took me there one Saturday.”
“What did you do?”
“He gave me hot chocolate.”
“Anything else?”
Leo nodded.
“He said if he ever forgot something important, I should remember the red chair.”
My brother had built a backup plan inside a six-year-old’s memory.
Not because he wanted Leo involved.
Because he was afraid he might run out of safer options.
Ortiz sent a message.
Ten minutes later his phone buzzed.
He showed me the screen.
ETHAN MORETTI’S FORMER OFFICE BUILDING.
SECOND FLOOR.
SUITE 214.
I looked back through the glass.
Leo was telling Dr. Keller about his favorite dinosaur.
He had no idea that one small memory had just opened another door.
Then Ortiz’s phone buzzed again.
He read the message and went still.
“What?” I asked.
“Suite 214 has been empty since Ethan’s firm moved out.”
“That is not surprising.”
“No.”
Ortiz turned the screen toward me.
“The surprising part is someone rented it yesterday.”
“Who?”
He looked at me.
May you like
“Northline Holdings.”
THE DOOR THOMAS OPENED
