A large oil painting of Carter’s father hung on the wood-paneled wall behind the desk.

I stood in front of it for a moment.

The paint was thick, the colors dark and somber.

“Marcus,” I called out.

Marcus came into the lobby, his boots clicking on the slate floor.

“Yes, Ms. Vale?”

“Take this down,” I said, pointing to the portrait.

“Put it in the basement. If anyone from the Hartwell family asks for it, they can have it.”

“But they have to carry it out themselves.”

“Understood,” Marcus said.

He reached up, lifted the heavy gilded frame from its hook, and carried it down the hall toward the stairs.

A clean, pale rectangle of wood remained on the paneling where the painting had been.

I took the elevator to the third floor.

The doors opened to the executive suite.

The carpet was thick and cream-colored, muffling my footsteps.

I walked down the hallway to Carter’s office.

The door was unlocked.

The room smelled of stale cigar smoke and expensive leather.

His desk was made of dark mahogany, covered in neat stacks of folders and a leather-bound calendar.