Winward scowled at the squad room door as it swung closed. “Asshole,” he muttered, tearing open the envelope. He pulled out a single piece of paper and read, “111 Redding Road, Kingston.”
His scowl deepened as he fingered the gold-embossed Shear Gallery business card that had fallen from the envelope onto the file lying open on his desk. Comparing the address he had just received with one listed in the file, Winward jumped to his feet.
“Hey, kid,” he shouted, slamming through the squad room’s glass door. “Wait up!”
The courier quickened his pace and Winward soon lost sight of him as the kid turned into a corridor leading to the main entrance. Pushing his way past officers escorting a couple of thugs in handcuffs, Winward made his way out the door and onto the street.
“Damn,” he swore.
A swift glance in all directions confirmed his fear. The courier had vanished.
The day was crisp and bright. Wispy clouds floated over the distant panoramic view of Atlanta seen from his office window. Turning away, he no longer felt the need to suppress the laughter growing within him.
So, Shear thinks he’s going to be a great artist. A rumble began building in his chest. I wonder what the critics on Death Row will think of his work. His laughter increased as he settled behind his desk. By now Winward should be looking into the incentive I sent him this morning. His eyes gleamed with amusement. A few inquiries in the right places and he’ll be dancing in the streets. He’ll consider himself a bloody hero.
His smile faded as a child’s image floated across his mind. Her eyes were dark and sunken. Her dark hair hung in disarray, stringing across her shoulders and down her back. Her dress was soiled and torn. Ugly bruises marred her small body. He shook the unsettling vision from his mind.
He had been shocked to see the portrait of his half-sister hanging on Shear’s wall. He had known then that something would have to be done about the collection.
Too many people know about the damn thing already. Tomorrow, Shear’s going to open his gallery to the public and unless something is done to prevent it, everything I’ve worked so hard for will be ruined. His brow creased. Mr. Lukin won’t like that.
A sardonic smile flitted across his lips. But that’s not going to happen, is it? By the time I’m finished, Mr. Thomas Shear won’t know what hit him and Lukin will be none the wiser.
Emmy. Stupid little bitch. His hatred seethed. If it weren’t for you, none of this would be happening. If you’d never been born, I wouldn’t have had to throw you down that well. But I had no choice.
Conniving, backstabbing, stupid little bitch! Even in death you stole mother’s love from me. When they found your body, they said it was accidental. That you must’ve slipped and fell. I couldn’t have been more pleased. But mother knew. Somehow she’d known what I’d done.
The buzz of his intercom sounded dimly within the upheaval of his thoughts.
Stupid, manipulating bitch. You deserved to die. Both of you deserved to die. Stupid, backstabbing, whoring bitches!
The persistent buzz was like an annoying, sadistic mosquito. He slammed his fist against the intercom button. “What!”
There was a maddening pause before a hesitant voice sounded through the speaker.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. But there’s a call for you on line two. You also wanted me to remind you of your three o’clock appointment.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” he said. “Thank you.”
He picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear. “Yes?”
“It’s me.”
“You fool,” he snarled. His brows drew together in outrage. “Why are you calling me here? I thought I’d made myself clear—”
“Winward’s suspicious.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he chased me out of the police station, that’s how.”
“And did he catch you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then what are you worried about?” He paused, then asked, “I trust you’ve kept your afternoon open?”
“Sir?”
“Be at the Grant Park Zoo at five o’clock, in front of the reptile exhibit. There’s something else I need you to do for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and one more thing.”
“Sir?”
“Don’t ever call me here again,” he growled. “Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
He replaced the receiver and checked the time on his watch. No use in stalling. It’s got to be done. A pity, though. He’s really a very talented artist.
He released a whimsical sigh as he stood to retrieve his briefcase. Pausing before the mirror hanging on the wall, he ran a smoothing hand over his hair and smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The day was bright and cold as Winward and Hayes drove north on Interstate 75. Once they left the cities of Marietta and Kennesaw behind, businesses along the north and south bound lanes began falling away. Forests stretched along the roadway, pines still green, hardwoods bare, just waiting for spring.
“So, how’d it go last night?” Winward asked, turning down the volume of Bob Seger’s “Night Moves.”
Hayes lowered the pages they’d printed from MapQuest. “Hmrrghm.” The sound resembled a disgruntled bear. “I didn’t like him,” he said.
“Why not? Did he pick his nose at the table?” Winward inquired, grinning.
That noise again. “That’s just it. He was well-mannered. Spoke respectfully to Violet and me. Going to Georgia Tech, studying architectural design. Smart kid. Good looking. He even cracked a couple of pretty funny jokes. Made Violet laugh, anyway.”
Winward’s grin widened. “Oh, okay. Let’s see if I have it straight. The kid’s intelligent, working toward an affluent career, respectful to the in-laws and has a sense of humor. Hmm, I see your point. The kid’s definitely a loser. Might as well take him out and shoot him.”
Hayes turned a hostile eye toward Winward. “He’s after my Tory, man. My baby!”
“Isn’t she seventeen?”
“Like I said, a baby.”
“What did Violet have to say about him?”
“She liked him.” He screwed his big, dark face up in a not-to-be comical, but was, imitation of his wife. “Thought he was sweet,” he said in his best feminine voice, which would have been perfect for a cross-dresser named Butch. He let the face fall. “Liked the way he treated Tory. Reminded me that Tory will be eighteen next month, and that she’d been eighteen when we got married.” That noise again. “I told her point blank ‘my girl’s going to college to make something of herself’. Luckily, she had sense enough to agree, although I didn’t like the indulgent expression on her face while she did it. Pattin’ me all lovey-dovey in the process like she was puttin’ a child at ease.” That noise again.
Winward was astounded as he glanced over at his partner, letting his amusement show plainly on his face. That was the most Hayes had ever said in consecutive sentences. Winward cleared his throat to keep from laughing.
“You’re really having a problem with Tory growing up, aren’t you?”
That noise again.
“I can’t speak from experience, but I can imagine how tough it must be. Sometimes I wish I’d had kids.”
“You still can,” Hayes stated. “You’re still young. Just because things didn’t work out with Kathy doesn’t mean your next relationship will end badly.”
Winward made a noise of his own.
“What about that sweet, young thing you took out last week? What was her name? Sonya? Sharon?”
As Winward exited at the first Cartersville exit and picked up Highway 41 North in town, he replied, “Becky.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Becky. What’s up with her?”
Winward shrugged. “Becky’s great. Her kids are another subject.”
“How many kids does she have?”
“Two. A boy and a girl. Ten and eight.”
“What’
s wrong with ’em?”
“They miss their dad. Having a rough time with mom dating. The usual.”
“Well, they’ll have to get used to it. Eventually.”
Winward braked for a red light. “That’s reassuring.” He looked around remembering when this was nothing more than your typical small country town. The courthouse used to be the largest building around. Now he could see signs for a Super Wal-Mart and a Home Depot. Texaco, Quik-Trip, and BP convenience stores stood at three corners of the intersection. They had already passed a Long Horn Steak House and a Ruby Tuesday’s. There had even been a Red Lobster. He gave a mental sigh. Progress.
The light turned green and he watched the traffic in front of him accelerate through the intersection. As he picked up speed, Hayes referred to the map.
“Turn-off should be up ahead.”
At the junction of Hwy 293, Winward took a left at the light and headed northwest toward Kingston. They watched the houses grow further apart as green pastureland stretched on either side of the two-lane highway.
Livestock dotted the rolling landscape, some grazing while others huddled together beneath leafless, forlorn trees. A chestnut horse caught Winward’s eye as it galloped across a field, and he silently admired the grace of the animal before speeding by.
“You know,” Hayes said after a companionable silence, “in a way, you’re kind of lucky.”
“How do you figure that?”
“You get to play with the babes, man. Granted, they’re usually divorced with kids, but still. You can handle that. And you get to spend your money the way you want. You have a nice house in the ’burbs. Not to mention this kick-ass automobile. Yes siree, kick-ass,” he embellished, referring to the cherry red, mint condition ’64 Impala in which they rode.
“I can see how you could think that, but you’re forgetting something,”
“Which is?”
“Family.” Winward let the word hang for a heartbeat. “Now don’t get me wrong,” he said, giving the dashboard a loving pat. “I do love this sweet, rumbling machine of mine. But I think you’re the lucky one. My advice? Ease up on Tory. At least a little bit.”
Hayes regarded Winward with a thoughtful scowl. “You’re feeling needy, aren’t you?” he asked. “I know just the thing. Home cooking. That’s it. I need to invite you over for dinner more often, don’t I?”
Winward chortled as he took a left onto Redding. A mile later, he slowed the car to a crawl and parked at the grassy curb in front of the small, single story white-frame house at 111 Redding Road. The property had been well-maintained and boasted a profusion of shrubs and flowering gardens that, at the moment, were lying dormant until spring. Vines of prickly roses were trellised between windows and on each side of the front door.
As the two detectives watched, a little girl, bundled in a blue coat and pink hat, burst from the side door and raced toward the swing-set in the fenced back yard. They could hear her squeals of delight as she kicked off and pushed higher while holding tight to the chains supporting the swing.
Winward pulled his eyes away and looked at the neighboring house forty yards away. It had been there for years. Its trees were old with enormous canopies. The house looked like it had risen from the ground with its stone pillars supporting an open front porch and wood siding the color of sand, trimmed out in a dark forest green. Its peaked tin roof was streaked with rust. A rock chimney rose up the side of the house and over the tin’s edge.
Close enough to be aware, he thought. It was a small town, after all. Longtime residents knew pretty much what was going on with their neighbors. It was his experience that new residents usually kept to themselves, so the house on the other side would be a waste of time. It was big and new, two hundred yards away, at the least. Spindly, hand planted trees dotted the yard.
“Let’s go,” Winward said, switching off the engine. They got out of the car and made their way up the gravel driveway to the front door of the small white house.
At Winward’s knock, the door was opened by a young woman with soft, inquiring brown eyes. Her long brunette hair was pulled back in a ponytail with bangs fringing her brow. The dusting cloth in her hand was momentarily forgotten.
“Yes?”
“Hello, ma’am.” Winward held up his badge. “My name’s Detective Winward. This is my partner, Detective Hayes. We’re with the Cobb County Police Department. We’re sorry to disturb you, but we need to ask you a few questions.”
Her eyes grew wide. “I can’t for the life of me think of why police detectives would want to talk to me,” she said. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”
Winward displayed a coaxing smile. “Of course not, ma’am. What we need to discuss with you concerns the former owners of this house.”
“Oh.” Her obvious relief turned to surprise. “The former owners? I don’t really know what I could tell you. I never met the woman who lived here before. We bought the house from her son about a year after she died. I think her name was Shear. Betty, Betsy, something like that.”
“Had the house remained vacant after Mrs. Shear’s death?”
“As far as I know.”
“Did the realtor give any details about the house or Mrs. Shear’s death, Mrs. . . .”
“Francis. Joleen Francis,” she said with a shy smile. “Yes, I believe she said something about cancer. As far as details of the house, we only had to use our eyes. The yard was really something to see. It was spring and everything was bloomin’. It looked glorious. Especially the roses. They were breathtakin’. I think that’s what finally persuaded us to buy the place.”
“There’s nothing else you can tell us about Mrs. Shear or her son?” Hayes asked, his deep voice drawing the woman’s timid gaze.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Mrs. Francis, I want to thank you for your time. We appreciate your patience,” Winward replied.
“That’s quite alright. I was just doin’ a little cleanin’,” she said, brandishing the remembered cloth.
Winward smiled as he and Hayes turned to go.
“You might want to talk to my neighbor. Mrs. Padgett’s lived here for years. She probably knew Mrs. Shear pretty well.”
“Thank you. We’ll do that.”
As Winward and Hayes walked along the road toward the house next door, sounds of the romping little girl drew Winward’s attention. He paused to watch her play and the image of a slender little boy with raven hair and ebony-rimmed, dark blue eyes filled his mind. Frowning, Winward followed Hayes up the cool rock steps to Mrs. Padgett’s shaded porch, and knocked.
“Mrs. Padgett? We’re with the Cobb County Police Department. My name is Detective Mark Winward. This is my partner, Detective Hayes,” Winward stated when the inner door opened.
They held up their badges for the old woman to see. She stood behind the frail security of a screen door and peered at what they offered with quick, flashing eyes, then her small head lifted and her alert, scrutinizing gaze searched their faces.
“Yeah? So what do you want with me?” Her voice was strong, without quaver. She was petite with a slight, delicate frame. Her face was lined with wrinkles. Silver-white hair was pulled back into a bun and she wore a dress with a daisy print; a thick, white sweater; orthopedic hose; and pink, fuzzy slippers.
“We’d like to talk to you about the previous owners of the house next door.”
“Betsy Shear?” The old woman’s cornflower blue eyes sparkled with mischief and her cackle of amusement brought a smile to Winward’s lips. “Betsy’s been dead fer three years! What could she’ve done to you?”
Hayes’s laughter rumbled. “You’re feisty, aren’t you?”
Mrs. Padgett craned her neck to meet Hayes’s gaze. “I’ve been called worse,” she replied, releasing a chuckle. “You’re a big’un, ain’t ye?” Her amusement drained away. “What do you want with Betsy? She never hurt nobody.”
“No, ma’am. We didn’t mean to imply that she had,” Hayes stated. “We just need
to know her as a person. What kind of family life she had. That sort of thing.”
“What fer?”
“I’m afraid we can’t tell you that, ma’am,” Winward said. “We just need some information.”
“Infermation my foot,” she quipped. “I know why yer here, young fella. I might be old, but I ain’t deaf, dumb, or blind. It’s about that no account husban’ a her’s ain’t it?” She searched the men’s guarded expressions and heaved a sigh. “You might as well come in out of the cold. I’ve a feelin’ this is gonna take a spell.”
Concealing their surprise, Winward and Hayes followed the old woman’s spry steps through the aged house and into the kitchen. The house was warm. Almost too warm. The den was furnished with a worn, cozy sofa and matching chair. The ottoman had a patchwork pillow. A large picture of Christ beseeching the heavens graced the mantle.
The kitchen looked like its last renovation happened in the seventies. The refrigerator was green and Winward knew that if he opened the freezer he would find it covered with fuzzy looking white ice that had to be defrosted by hand. A tea kettle simmered on top of an electric stove that was the same outdated green. He glanced out the window over the double sink and saw Joleen Francis’s house next door.
“Go ahead and sit yerselves down,” she directed, pointing a bony finger to the slat-backed chairs gathered around the scarred oak table. “We’ll have our talk over coffee. Don’t get much comp’ny anymore. Seems everybody I know’s done gone and kicked the bucket.” Her cackle of laughter filled the spacious, outdated kitchen, bringing amused smiles to the men’s faces.
“How well did you know the Shear family?” Winward asked, accepting the chipped mug of instant coffee she placed in front of him.
“As well as anybody, I expect. We were neighbors for nigh on thirty years.”
“How long have you lived here?” he asked, with a hint of surprise.
“Sixty-three years come spring. Married when I was fifteen. My husband, Charlie, God rest his soul, brought me here right after the weddin’, and I ain’t left since.”
Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1) Page 19