Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1)

by Cynthia H. Wise

  Swainer gave an inward sigh as he watched Detective Winward shake his head in weary disgust. The detective had worked under him for the past five years, and he had grown to trust the man’s uncanny instinct, but there was nothing he could do; his hands were tied.

  “The case is closed, Mark,” he stated. “You know good and well you sealed the case as soon as you found that confession stuffed in Chandler’s mouth. Hell, his fingerprints were all over the place, including the stiletto. What more do you need?” Swainer glanced over at Hayes, who sat brooding beside Winward. “We should be thankful,” he continued. “Six months ago, we had a series of eight missing children on our hands.

  Thanks to the late Mr. Chandler, that series has been reduced to four random cases.”

  Mark Winward drew in a sharp breath then expelled it through his long, slender nose. He ran slim fingers through his short-cropped brown hair, and his dark eyes grew almost black beneath thick brows that were creased in frustration.

  Winward stood and walked to the window. He gazed between open blinds, seeming to barely notice the sunshine or the few people walking across the parking lot of the Marietta Police Station. His wide shoulders flexed beneath the dark wool of his suit jacket, as if trying to ease the tension that had been building for the past six months.

  “That’s just it,” he said, turning his head to look at Swainer. “After months of dead ends, a neat little package was dropped into our laps. I’ve tried, Chief, but I can’t let it go. There are just too many questions without answers.”

  “Such as?”

  Hayes spoke up from his chair across from Swainer’s desk. “Why, after all that time, did he suddenly feel the need to confess?”

  Hayes was a hulk of a man, but was known for his quiet control. With his bone-crushing strength, coffee-colored skin, and black, penetrating eyes, his mere presence was usually enough to intimidate the most hardened criminal. He had been partnered with Winward the year before and, so far, they made an unbeatable team.

  “Who knows? He might have guessed we were ready to call in the Feds. Or maybe the man had a plague of conscience,” Swainer suggested. “He couldn’t live with what he had done, so he confessed.”

  Winward’s lips twisted sourly as he turned from the window to face the room. “I doubt that,” he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Chandler was ruthless and self-centered. He was a financial magnate. He lived for the impossible challenge and would never have given in to defeat so easily. So, why did he give us the location of only one body? If he was feeling so guilty, why didn’t he tell us where the others could be found?”

  Swainer shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe he thought he was making it too easy for us and felt we should work for the rest.” He watched Winward shake his head with the expression of someone indulging a child.

  “I’m sorry, Bill, but I don’t buy it, and neither do you. The body of Kathy Packard was out in the open. If he was that careless with where he dumped the bodies, why haven’t we found the others? We’ve had half the force and hundreds of volunteers combing the city and surrounding areas.” Winward planted his hands on his hips and began to pace. “No, there’s more to it. Kathy Packard was his last victim. It’s almost like she was a plant, the bait to reel us in.”

  Chief Swainer let out a heavy sigh. He understood Winward’s dissatisfaction. The questions Winward raised were questions he had asked himself. Questions that should have had answers, but didn’t.

  Rising from his chair, Swainer walked around his desk. His dress shirt and pants hung from his bony frame. For the moment, he chose to ignore his blue and white striped tie that had condiment stains from the burger he’d had for lunch. He could almost feel his dark, graying hair growing lighter by the minute. He knew his pale blue eyes were bloodshot from an ill night’s sleep. If his colleagues didn’t know him better, they might have suspected him of using drugs.

  “It’s not up to you to like it, Mark,” he said, hiking his skeletal hip onto the front corner of his desk. “It’s not up to me anymore, either. The commissioner has the final say here, and he’s made himself very clear. As far as he’s concerned, the case is closed and has been for the past six months, since you and Hayes found Chandler dead in his attic. Without evidence stating otherwise, there’s nothing we can do but continue our search for the bodies of the three other girls he named in his confession.” He patted his shirt pocket in search of the cigarette pack he usually kept there then remembered he’d quit the damned things the week before.

  “Look,” he said. “If it’s any consolation, I’m on your side. I don’t like the way things have turned out any more than you, but my hands are tied.”

  Winward met Swainer’s gaze in the silence that followed. The feeling of friendship was strong between them. They respected each other personally and professionally. They admired the instincts and common sense they each possessed. Through the years, their friendship had grown. More importantly, however, the trust they held in each other had strengthened.

  “Bill, believe me, I know what you’re saying. I understand your position, and I wouldn’t jeopardize your command for something I didn’t totally believe in. But we’re not satisfied with the way this has turned out. We can’t be.”

  Swainer saw the determination in his friend’s expression and heard the familiar stubbornness in his voice. He needed a cigarette. Heaving an inward sigh, his resolve cracked. “What are you trying to say, Mark?” he asked.

  “If we were to find new evidence, would you back us up in re-opening the case?”

  Swainer looked over at Hayes and noted his acquiescence.

  “You know I can’t authorize that. We have a case load a mile high. I can’t afford to have you spending the taxpayer’s money and the department’s time working on a case that’s already officially solved.”

  “We’re not talking about doing that and you know it,” Winward said. “We have every intention of pulling our weight around here. But this is important. Not only to us, but I think to you too.”

  Swainer turned away and walked back to the chair behind his desk. “You’d have to do your investigation on your own time,” he stated.

  “We understand that,” Winward agreed, seeing Hayes’s nod.

  “You’d have to keep your investigation under wraps. We can’t afford to have it leaked to the commissioner that we’re working behind his back.”

  “Definitely.”

  “And you would have to report to me daily. We’d need enough evidence to blow this case wide open before we went public with it. We’d need enough to ensure the commissioner’s full cooperation.”

  Winward made a vain attempt at hiding a triumphant smile as he shifted his gaze toward Hayes. “Absolutely. We agree with everything you’ve said.” He turned for the door and Hayes stood to follow him out.

  “Remember, you two. I want to be kept informed of everything.”

  “Don’t worry. You will be.”

  Swainer watched his two best detectives stride away and felt the weight on his shoulders grow a little heavier. “I’m getting too old for this,” he mumbled, shaking his head.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jonathan pulled his Mercedes into the driveway and parked behind the rented U-Haul moving van. Even though the yellow and white paint of the structure was dull and chipping, Jonathan and Marsha couldn’t help but be impressed. It was like stepping into the mystique of a bygone era.

  “Wow,” he said under his breath.

  “Yeah… wow,” Marsha mimicked in awe.

  Its wide front porch extended around both sides. Large, octagon-shaped gazebos graced each of the front corners. A colonnade extended from the house on the left side, allowing the driveway to run through it to the back of the house. Even though the wide driveway was now asphalt, one could almost hear the crunch of gravel as coaches and carriages delivered their passengers for afternoon tea or a late night dinner party.

  Huge oaks, generations old, dotted the green lawn surrounding the hous
e, along with scattered dogwoods. Sycamores ran along one side of the property as if strategically planted by hands that had long since turned to dust. A thick hedge of Red Tip Photinia ran the length of the property line along both sides and back.

  Neighboring houses along the shaded street, each different in their own grand style, hinted of past generations while giving promise for new ones to come. The quaintness of a small town existence seemed to enhance the impression of time passing at a slower pace, even though the progress of modern life thrived around them.

  Marsha opened the car door and a breeze caught her shoulder-length, molasses-brown hair as she stepped out. She brushed it from her heart-shaped face and tucked it behind one ear as she scanned the house and property. Dressed for labor in a black Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt and jeans, she stood with her hand shielding her hazel eyes from the morning sun and took in the uncut lawn shaded by the trees. The red and gold of their leaves were nearing their fall peak. The tweet of a bird’s call and the bark of a squirrel mingled with the traffic moving along Church Street toward the square of Marietta.

  “Well? What do you think?” Tom called, stepping around the U-Haul and watching their expressions as he held out his arms.

  Marsha smiled her approval. “So far, I’m impressed,” she said as her eyes were drawn back to the house.

  “Wait until you see the inside. The rooms are enormous.”

  Marsha pulled her gaze from the dormers protruding from the roof in time to see Tom and Jonathan disappear inside. Her brisk stride carried her across the cobbled walkway and up the porch steps. She followed the sound of their voices and found them standing in front of a massive marble fireplace.

  “Tom, this is fantastic,” Jonathan said, his voice loud and echoing in the large, empty room.

  “It is great, isn’t it? Come on. I’ll show you around before we start unloading the truck.”

  As he walked them through the four large rooms, he detailed his plans to create a different color scheme for each one.

  “Each room will have a different atmosphere and mood,” he explained, leading the way through double French doors at the end of the left side hallway. “My purpose is to emphasize the variety of themes I manifest in my work.

  “As you can see, I’ve already had the walls and ceiling throughout the house painted. The hardwood floors have been stripped and refinished. New carpet has been laid upstairs as well. The only room that hasn’t been carpeted upstairs is the spare bedroom. I don’t have any furniture for that room anyway, so it shouldn’t stand in the way of moving things in,” he said with a grin and shrug.

  Jonathan smiled and slapped Tom on the shoulder. “All in good time, my friend.”

  “I have a question,” Marsha said. “Why did you choose the color red for this room?” The textured ceiling was pristine white and the elaborate crown molding was a light crème. The walls, on the other hand, were a dark red, the color of a rich, full-bodied wine that reminded her of blood. She suppressed a shiver.

  “I don’t understand how your paintings could possibly harmonize with such a dominating color,” she continued. “The colors in the other three rooms, the white, ice blue, and soft yellow, I can see. But this deep red is pretty extreme.”

  Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. I have to admit, I was skeptical at first myself. But when the room was finished, I knew it was perfect.”

  He escorted them from the room and down a hallway that crossed beneath the staircase to a closed door on the other side. “This is the kitchen,” he said, pushing through the swinging door. “There’s very little that will have to be done in here. New wallpaper, maybe. New tile was installed before I bought the house. The best part is that it’s roomy enough for the catering team I’m going to hire to serve the parties and special showings I intend to have.”

  Inside, they saw a large butcher-block island with a deep stainless steel sink in its center. The countertops were blue tile and the cabinets, many with glass doors, were the color of fresh honey. A generous bay window looked out onto the back lawn.

  Marsha stepped to a recessed door and revealed a hidden staircase. “This will come in handy.”

  “Sure will. Upstairs, I have a den, a study, two bedrooms, and two full baths. My apartment didn’t even compare to what I have now.”

  Marsha and Jonathan smiled at their friend’s excitement as the doorbell echoed through the empty house.

  “That’s probably the carpet layers. They said they were going to finish up today.”

  “You go ahead,” Jonathan said, taking Marsha’s hand. “We’ll just nose around until you’re ready to start unloading.”

  Jonathan led Marsha up the back stairs to the second floor. When they came upon a narrow stretch of stairs that continued to lead upward, Marsha looked into the darkness and felt dread settle in her chest. Her feet became leaden as Jonathan climbed the first step up.

  “Come on,” he urged, giving her hand a gentle tug. “Tom told me he had the new skylights installed in the attic last week. I want to see how they turned out.”

  “No,” she said and pulled her hand away.

  Jonathan turned in surprise. “What do you mean no? Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

  Marsha’s cheeks felt cold and pale. When she realized she was staring with wide, frightened eyes at the door above them, she pulled her gaze away and looked at him, forcing a smile. “Nothing,” she said with a quick shake of her head.

  “Honey, I know you better than that,” Jonathan said, stepping back down to face her. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

  “Don’t you feel it?”

  “Feel what?” he asked, then ran his hand through his hair and across the back of his neck like he was smoothing a prickling scalp.

  Marsha shook her head again. “Never mind.” She cast an apprehensive glance toward the stairs looming behind him and rubbed her arms to ward off a sudden chill. “Besides, there’s too much to do to be wasting time. The new carpet needs to be vacuumed before Tom’s things can be brought in. The bathrooms need scouring. The windows need to be washed and—”

  “Baby, all of those things can wait another five minutes.” He gave her a coaxing smile. “Come on. Tom really wants us to see it. He’s proud of what he’s accomplished, and with good reason.”

  “I can’t,” she said, backing away from his reaching hand.

  “What? Marsha, you’re acting silly. It’s only an empty attic.”

  She gave her head another vigorous shake. “I don’t care. I’m not going up there.” Her hazel eyes betrayed the sudden panic she felt, and Jonathan surrendered with a soft, bewildered sigh.

  “Okay.” He took her in his arms and held her tight. “You go on down and find Tom,” he said, steering her toward the main staircase. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  When Marsha stopped and looked back at him with drawn, worried brows, Jonathan gave her a reassuring smile. She stood watching as he began the climb up, then whirled, and hurried down the main stairs, only slowing her steps when she saw Tom in the foyer.

  “Where’s Jonathan?”

  Her smile felt plastic. “He’s in your studio looking around. Was that the carpet layers at the door?” she asked, then took a deep breath in and slowly let it out to help settle her nerves.

  “Yep. They’re outside gathering their tools.”

  “Great. I’ll bring in the cleaning supplies,” she said and started to turn away. “Oh, by the way, I like the carpet upstairs. Neutral, but very plush.” She tried giving him an impish grin.

  “Thanks,” he said, smiling back. “Need any help?”

  “Nope. You just go up and fetch Jonathan.”

  As Marsha moved from room to room with her vacuum, bucket, and rags, Tom and Jonathan unloaded the moving van. The lowering sun went unnoticed as they strained beneath the heavy weight of furniture and packed boxes. By the time each piece had been brought in and arranged, twilight had crept in around them.

  “Well, that’s the last of it,” Tom ann
ounced, setting a bulging box on the floor. “Now comes the fun part. It’s going to take me forever to unpack.”

  “What do you mean, ‘the fun part’? I’ve just had an afternoon so full of fun I can hardly move.” Jonathan groaned as he sank into a soft leather recliner.

  Marsha raised a teasing brow. “What’s the matter, Jonathan? Getting soft with age?”

  Tom chuckled, and Jonathan did an excellent job of looking down his nose to fake an air of superiority. “Go ahead and laugh. When a beautiful woman pokes fun at your macho prowess, I’ll remember this.”

  “Maybe next time you’ll think twice about offering your services,” Tom replied, his grin widening. “On the other hand, I’m sure you’ll find humor in the fact that I’ll still be up to my eyeballs in boxes, not to mention struggling to hook up the entertainment center, while the two of you are snuggling between your sheets.”

  Jonathan looked over at the wall-mounted forty-six inch flat-screen TV, CD player, DVD unit, and surround sound stereo system. “You’ve got a point,” he conceded and smirked.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Tom.” Marsha stifled a yawn as she stretched her tired muscles before collapsing onto the leather sofa. “Everything will fall into place. You don’t have to try to do it all tomorrow, you know.”

  “Oh, I don’t intend to. I’ve got the next few days free to unpack. I’m just going to take my time and enjoy decorating my new home.”

  “Don’t you have to be back at the university on Monday?”

  “I’m taking next week off to get settled.”

  Jonathan’s mouth twitched with amusement. “I’m sure your students will appreciate the reprieve.”

  “Very funny,” Marsha said in Tom’s defense. “I happen to know Tom’s students think the world of him.”

  “Humph.”

  Tom’s eyes sparkled with mirth as he watched his two friends. “Look, I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m starving. Do you want to go out? My treat. We’ll go anywhere your little heart’s desire.”