“No. I’ve got a business dinner with Craig Raymond tonight at seven o’clock to discuss featuring some of my work in his galleries. I’m not sure when I’ll be home.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to Russ and one of us will give you a call in the morning. In the meantime, I have to go,” he said, pulling on his coat. “I’ve got a stack of paperwork on my desk a mile high.”
He paused in the doorway and cast Tom an appraising look. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep? You look like hell.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In the city of Buckhead—a community skirting Atlanta and known for its nightlife entertainment, restaurants, artisan exhibits and museums—was the Magnolia House Restaurant. The centuries-old mansion had been transformed into an oasis of fine dining. Glowing candlelight created an air of privacy as the hum of quiet conversation mingled with the clinks of china and the chimes of crystal resonating through the large, open rooms. Dimmed crystal chandeliers hung suspended from fourteen foot ceilings. Tables were draped in white linen. Lavender orchids in crystal bud vases adorned each table next to the glowing candles. Soft jazz drifted through the rooms. Delectable aromas created by five-star chefs mingled with the scents of candle wax, perfumes, and colognes.
Tom followed the maître d’ into the left front parlor room where his hosts sat waiting and watched Craig and Michael Raymond rise from their seats at his approach. Dressed similarly in dark, pen-stripe suits, the two men held an uncanny resemblance. The only noticeable differences were the robust thickening of Craig Raymond’s midriff and his rapidly thinning gray hair. Michael Raymond had a tall, lean frame. His reddish-brown mane was thick and well-kept. They each had the characteristics of cobalt eyes, straight and narrow Norman noses, and thin lipped mouths that seemed to lift at one corner with an indulgent hint of mockery.
“Ah, Mr. Shear,” Craig Raymond greeted, offering his hand, “so glad you could make it.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Tom responded, shaking Michael’s hand in turn. His own suit of dove gray wool contrasted boldly with the other men’s dark dress. With his thick raven hair and dark, chiseled features, he cut a striking, handsome figure. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“No, no. Not at all. We’ve only just arrived ourselves,” Raymond declared, taking his seat. “Would you like a drink?”
Tom voiced his preference to the hovering waiter.
“I hope you don’t mind my joining the party, Mr. Shear.” A congenial smile graced Michael’s lips. “But since our talk the other day and seeing your work first hand, my interest in the business transpiring between you and my father has grown.”
“I’m flattered, Mr. Raymond. Why should I mind?”
“Capital.” Michael’s smile widened. “I must also apologize for my hasty departure. I’m afraid the talk we had of childhood fancies had a disarming effect. I’m sorry to say I let my imagination run away with me.”
“Think nothing of it,” Tom replied.
“What’s this?” Craig Raymond asked, looking from Tom to Michael.
“It’s nothing of consequence, Father. It’s only being inside Mr. Shear’s gallery brought back a few forgotten memories.”
“Indeed,” Raymond interjected with a chuckle. “As I recall, Mr. Shear and I had a discussion along those same lines. It would appear your gallery affects people in more than the usual way, Mr. Shear.”
“But shouldn’t that be a goal for any artist?” Tom countered as the waiter placed his bourbon on the rocks in front of him.
“It should be, yes,” Raymond answered. “But you, my friend, have mastered the concept. As a matter of fact, Michael seems to be quite taken with your Rage collection, Mr. Shear. Even more so than I, it would seem.”
Tom’s brow rose with a mixture of surprise and amusement. “That’s hard to believe. You drove a pretty hard bargain yourself.”
“But to no avail,” Raymond admitted. “Have you by any chance reconsidered?”
“No. I’m afraid not,” Tom answered with the hint of a smile.
“Would it make a difference that, with deep consideration and a little arm twisting from Michael, I’ve decided to raise my offer?”
Tom gave a low laugh at the man’s audacity. The sound was deep-throated and rich. “Like I said before, you drive a hard bargain. But the answer is still no.”
Craig Raymond eyed Tom. “I can’t decide whether you’re just being stubborn, Mr. Shear, or very shrewd. Your tactics could very well be considered clever. Very clever, indeed.”
Tom returned the man’s probing gaze. The corner of his mouth lifted at Raymond’s insinuation. “You’re certainly entitled to your opinion, sir.”
“Indeed.” The older man seemed to be fighting a smile. “Let’s order dinner, shall we?” He shifted a quick glance at Tom before opening his menu. “Only if you’re ready, of course.”
“Certainly.”
After they placed their order, Raymond wasted no time in broaching the subject of business. Tom listened, maintaining a mask of indifference he had perfected at a very early age.
“Mr. Shear, I think you’re aware of our profound interest in your work. It is my intent, with your permission, of course, to feature several pieces of each of your themes in exactly the same way you have presented them in your own gallery. The settings you’ve created are superb. I was very impressed. And that means the art lovers of the world will most certainly be impressed as well. It would mean a phenomenal amount of recognition. But let me stress the point of what I just said to waylay any misunderstandings. When I said several pieces of each of your themes, I was also including several pieces of the Rage collection. The publicity would be astronomical from those particular pieces alone.”
“Father, you can’t be serious,” Michael spouted, revealing as much surprise as Tom kept hidden. “What I mean is . . . well . . .” His face flushed above his tight collar. “What I meant to say is, Mr. Shear has already stated his opinion of selling the Rage collection, and I think we should honor his decision. To suggest dividing the collection just to own a few pieces would be close to sacrilege, to which I’m sure Mr. Shear will undoubtedly agree.”
Craig Raymond turned a baleful eye on his son. “I wasn’t suggesting our buying a few pieces of the collection, Michael. Of course, it would be beyond consideration to split such work. All I’m suggesting is for Mr. Shear to allow part of the collection to be shown in one of our choice galleries.”
Tom kept his eyes discreetly lowered as Michael’s lips tightened and the flush on his face deepened. Turning his attention back to Tom, Raymond missed his son’s malevolent stare as he picked up his drink to wash down the bitter humiliation his father had caused.
“Of course, I wasn’t implying what my son just suggested, Mr. Shear. My main objective is only to proudly present what you’ve created to gain the publicity and recognition it deserves. I’m sure a man of your intelligence and skill can appreciate that. And naturally, considering the circumstances, I would also hold the exclusive for purchasing the entire collection when the time comes for you to sell.”
Raymond watched casually for Tom’s reaction. When none came, he continued, withdrawing a contract from the briefcase beside his chair.
“Now, since the particulars have been discussed and agreed upon, I see no reason why we shouldn’t conclude our business by signing the contract I took upon myself to bring and be done with it. Dinner should be along any moment and I do hate conducting business over anything as delectable as Beef Wellington. Bad for digestion. Don’t you agree, Mr. Shear?”
“Excuse me, sir,” Tom said, ignoring the papers Craig Raymond held out to him. “But our business is far from being discussed or agreed upon.”
“Oh?” Raymond feigned surprise, raising his salt and pepper brows. “Is there something you would like to add?”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” Tom said, returning Raymond’s stare. His calm exterior concealed his rising anger. “First of all, I’m not an adolescent
who can be bullied into a situation against his wishes. Secondly, the Rage collection is mine to decide whether it should or should not be exhibited. And at this time, my decision is to keep the entire collection at my own gallery to exhibit when and however often I like.
“So therefore, gentlemen, if the terms of our agreement have to include the Rage collection, I’m afraid we have nothing further to discuss. If my other work hasn’t enough merit on its own to establish a business relationship between us, then I apologize for wasting your time.”
Tom forced a gracious smile and gathered his napkin from his lap. Laying it on the table, he looked from one speechless man to the next and gave each a polite nod.
“Gentlemen, I want to thank you for your hospitality.” He began to rise. “Come by the gallery anytime. My door will always be open to you.”
“Mr. Shear, please. Let’s not be hasty,” Raymond protested with a modest chuckle. His heated blush began to recede. “Surely, an arrangement can be made.”
“Of course your other work has merit, Mr. Shear,” Michael interjected, enjoying the sight of his father’s discomfort. The hostile glance he received only seemed to heighten his mirth. “I’m sure my father never meant to imply otherwise.”
“Forgive my insensitivity, Mr. Shear,” Raymond stated, mastering his emotions. “I was aware of your attachment to the Rage collection, but apparently I was unaware of exactly how deep those attachments run. Of course, I’m interested in your other work. Very interested, in fact. I’m sure arrangements can be made which will sufficiently satisfy your needs as well as my own.”
He paused to eye the waiter approaching their table.
“But first, let’s enjoy our dinner, shall we? We can resume business over coffee later.”
“An excellent idea.” Michael picked up a claw of his steamed lobster. “I was surprised to meet Russ Carson at your gallery the other day, Mr. Shear. I didn’t realize he was an art connoisseur.”
“Russ Carson,” Raymond exclaimed. “I’ve known Russ for years. I was unaware he was an acquaintance of yours, Mr. Shear.”
“We were introduced through a mutual friend,” Tom responded with a nonchalant shrug, severing a slice of perfectly prepared prime rib.
“The other man present was a lawyer as well, wasn’t he?” Michael asked casually. “I’m ashamed to admit his name escapes me at the moment.”
Tom wondered how the man knew Jonathan’s profession. It wasn’t mentioned during the introductions before the two attorneys left the gallery that day. His initial suspicion toward the man grew.
“Jonathan Fields.” Tom’s expression cloaked his growing apprehension. “And yes, he’s an attorney also.”
“Fascinating. Is he a specialist in criminal law, as well?”
“No. His specialty is domestic disputes.”
“Fascinating.”
Tom shrugged again and turned his attention to Craig Raymond. “You said you’d known Mr. Carson for years. Is he a close friend of yours?”
“I’m not sure you would exactly call us close,” Raymond replied. “I haven’t seen Russ in years. No, that’s not quite true,” he corrected himself, raising his napkin to his lips. “The last time I saw Russ was at a funeral we both attended several months ago. But we spoke very little. It wasn’t exactly the right atmosphere for a jovial reunion.”
Tom felt the hair rise on his forearms and the back of his neck. “No. I shouldn’t think so.”
“I remember that miserable day,” Michael said with a distasteful turn of his lips. “It rained in sheets. Actually, it was quite befitting considering the circumstances surrounding Chandler’s death.”
“Quite,” Raymond agreed, forking a bite of Beef Wellington as he turned to Tom. “I’d known Theodore for a long time. We met in college. In fact, he’s the one who introduced me to Russ.” Raymond lifted the bite of food to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed before continuing. “Russ handled the legalities concerning my first gallery. And later on, as business flourished, he helped with my expansions. Of course, this was before he turned to criminal law.”
“You might consider giving Mr. Carson a call, Father. It might not be wise to let such a friendship fall by the wayside.” Michael looked at Tom with an innocent eye. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Shear?”
“My opinion doesn’t matter. The decision is your father’s,” Tom answered, paying close attention to his plate.
“For once, I agree with you, Michael,” Raymond said, studiously watching his son. “I’ll give the matter some thought.” He turned his speculating gaze back to Tom. “But right now,
I want to know more about you, Mr. Shear.”
“Such as?”
Raymond smiled at Tom’s evasiveness. “I recognize a Southern-bred gentleman when I meet one. Have you always lived in the South?”
Tom returned Raymond’s wry smile. “Yes. I was born and raised in the small town of Kingston. My grandfather was a farmer and my parents worked in the mills.”
“Have you traveled?”
“A bit.”
“And what about your artistic talents? How did they evolve?”
Tom digested the inquiry with calculated patience as an indulgent smile formed his lips. “From a vivid imagination and years of practice,” he replied.
He was saved from further explanations by the appearance of the waiter. During dessert and coffee, business was resumed and a satisfactory deal was made. No mention of the Rage collection was offered.
“I’ll have the contracts drawn up and deliver them personally,” Raymond stated, the ice cubes in his drained water glass tinkled as he placed it on the table.
“That’s not necessary,” Tom said. “I’d be happy to meet with you at your convenience.”
“Nonsense. Besides, it’ll give me another chance to look over your work and decide which pieces to exhibit.”
“Very well,” Tom agreed. “When shall I expect you?”
“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days to have the papers drawn. Don’t worry. I’ll be in touch very soon.”
“Oh, I’m not worried, Mr. Raymond,” Tom replied. “I just like to know what to expect.”
Michael released a smug laugh. “A sentiment I agree with, Mr. Shear.”
“Well, gentlemen, it would seem our business is complete.” Tom rose from his seat. The two Raymonds pushed away from the table and stood as if on cue. “I want to thank you both for dinner. It was exquisite.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Shear,” Raymond said, accepting Tom’s hand. “I’ll admit it’s been entertaining.”
“Yes. Quite entertaining,” Michael replied with a smile.
Tom could not dismiss Michael’s smile and knew the man’s keen gaze followed him out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The squad room was alive with noise and motion. Telephones rang, papers rustled, file drawers opened and closed while detectives and staff tapped on keyboards. Voices, some loud, others engaged in mumbled conversations, competed with the chattering hum of fax machines and printers. Hayes’s deep baritone rumbled across the adjoining desks as he faced Winward with the phone pressed against his ear, pen in hand, filling out a report form.
Winward looked up from the file on his desk as the glass doors of the squad room flew open. He watched as Ronny Keppler, a departmental snitch, also known as Cracker—a nickname derived from his love for crack cocaine—was hauled in for questioning by Detective Jack Morrison.
“I already tolt ya, man,” Keppler whined. His dark skin glistened with nervous perspiration as Morrison led him to the desk across the aisle from Winward. “I don’t know nothin’. I wuten even dere when dat ho was kilt.”
“That’s not what we heard, Cracker,” Morrison said. “We’ve got eyewitnesses who said you were there smokin’ crack. They also said you were coming on pretty strong with the lady.”
Keppler’s jaundiced eyes glinted with defiance as he straightened his bony spine. “Maybe I was dere. But I neva kilt no ho, man. I was d
ere foe da drugs. Dat’s all. If anybody says differnt, they’s lyin’.”
“Okay, Cracker. Just relax and have a seat. I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a long day.” Morrison gave him a gentle push, causing his skeletal frame to collapse into a chair.
“Hey, Winward.”
Cracker’s voice was beginning to shake with a mixture of fear and the need of his addiction. Winward looked up from his file on Thomas Shear and returned the sweating man’s darting gaze.
“Tell ’im, man. Tell ’im I neva kilt no ho. You’ve knowd me foe a long time, Winward. Tell ’im I don’t have nothin’ like dat in me. He’ll believe you, man.”
“Can’t do it, Cracker.” Winward laced his fingers behind his head. “For one thing, I wasn’t there. And for another, it’s not my case.”
Ignoring obscenities insulting certain members of his family, Winward returned his gaze to the file open on his desk. It was frustratingly thin. He had read its scanty contents over and over hoping to find something he might have missed the time before. Name, social security number, date of birth, names of mother and father, previous addresses since childhood. Mother–deceased. Father’s whereabouts–unknown. Raised by grandparents since age twelve. Six years of college–mastering in both business and creative arts.
No prior record whatsoever. Not even a damn parking ticket. According to this, Thomas Shear’s practically a saint.
“There’s got to be a connection,” he murmured. “It’s here. It’s got to be.”
“Are you Detective Winward?”
Winward looked up to see a wiry young man with an acne-blotched face. With a sigh, he pushed the file away and leaned back in his chair.
“Yeah. I’m Winward.”
“Got a package for you. Sign here.” The youth held out a clipboard and pen.
Winward signed his name and looked at the envelope the courier dropped on the desk. “Who’s it from?”
The youth smirked. “How would I know?” He retrieved his clipboard and turned for the door. “Have a nice day, officer.”
Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1) Page 18