“Are you okay, Shear?”
“I’ll live.”
“What happened?”
Tom’s scathing gaze met Winward’s. “You tell me,” he snarled.
Marsha rushed in and Tom winced as the towel was pressed against his head. Drawing in a deep breath, he exhaled slowly to control his anger.
“Someone jumped me. I don’t know what he hit me with,” he said more calmly and flexed his right hand, barely glancing at his bruised and abraded knuckles. “We fought. He got away. That’s all I know.”
“You’ve received quite a blow, but it doesn’t look like it needs stitches,” Jonathan stated. “You’re going to have one hell of a knot though. You should probably see a doctor.”
“Let me see,” Kelly said as she nudged Jonathan to the side. She examined the cut, bit her lip with indecision then made her choice and placed her palm over the wound.
“I don’t need a doctor. What I want is to know how that guy got past the security system,” Tom demanded, feeling warmth suffuse his scalp. Startled, he looked at Kelly and saw pleading in her eyes. The warmth intensified. He almost missed what Winward was saying and had to tear his gaze from Kelly’s.
“The average burglar wouldn’t have,” Winward stated, glancing around the room. “But for this guy, your system was probably nothing more than a nuisance. He had a specific purpose for being here and he obviously knew what he was doing.” Winward looked pointedly at the paintings stacked against the wall.
Following his gaze, Kelly asked, “Why would he go to the trouble of switching them?”
“It’s obvious his plan was to steal the Rage collection and blow up the house to cover his crime. Any evidence would have been consumed in the resulting flames.”
“But in order to accomplish this,” Jonathan continued, “he had to put something in their place; something that could be found in the rubble, but burnt beyond recognition.”
“Exactly. Placing the fakes in the original frames only served to divert suspicion.” Winward cast Tom a toothy smile. “It would seem, Mr. Shear, you screwed up his plans by coming home earlier than expected.”
“I hadn’t planned on coming home at all. I’d intended to spend the night at Kelly’s.”
The detective walked over to where an abandoned painting rested face down on the floor. As he lifted it up, Caroline Doltry’s huge, soulful blue eyes gazed back at them from the canvas.
“I heard gunfire,” Tom said, tearing his eyes from the portrait.
“Yeah.” Winward pulled his eyes away and gently rested the canvas against the wall. “The assailant had a gun. We had no choice.”
Sirens sounded in the distance.
“Dead?”
“Yeah.”
The sleeting had ended and was now only a steady, cold sprinkle. Tom stood leaning against the railing of the porch and watched the coroner’s van pull away, its tires whooshing on the wet asphalt. He saw Winward speaking with a uniformed officer and watched as the officer flipped his notepad closed before heading toward the patrol car where his partner stood waiting. A cluster of die-hard, looky-loo neighbors stood shivering across the street, and Tom wondered if he should smile and wave. Feeling Kelly’s presence beside him, he turned and took her in his arms.
“Tom, come inside.” Her voice was soft and edged with worry. “It’s cold and it’s late. You need to rest.”
“Not yet. I need to talk to Winward.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No, it can’t.”
She watched his face. “I wish you had gone to the hospital. What if you have a concussion? It’s not wise to let something like that go untreated. You need to take better care of yourself.”
He gave her a weary smile. “I don’t have to anymore. I’ve got you to do it for me now.”
“Are you being snide?” she asked affronted.
Tom chuckled. “No. I’m not.”
“Tom, I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He captured her gaze and peered deep. “How did you do it, Kelly? When you placed your hand on my head, I felt heat, then the bleeding stopped and the pain practically disappeared. I barely have a headache now.”
Kelly bit her lips and met his intent gaze a heartbeat longer. Uncertainty clouded her eyes before she looked away.
Marsha appeared beside them. “Things are finally winding down. How are you feeling?”
Tom smirked as he pulled his eyes from Kelly’s face to meet Marsha’s worried frown. “In what capacity are you asking, doctor?”
“Right now, physically,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm. “Any blurred vision? Dizziness?”
“No. Just a slight headache. What are you doing here anyway?”
“After what Jonathan told me, did you really expect me to be anywhere else?”
“I guess it would depend on how much he told you.”
Marsha’s eyes narrowed as she studied him. “Enough to know that you were in serious trouble. I had to extract a few teeth for details, though. My guess is he’s leaving that part up to you.”
“How’s the head, Shear?” Winward asked, walking toward them.
Tom heaved a sigh and corralled his annoyance. “Ask me in a couple of days,” he replied, and obeyed Kelly’s tug as she led the way into the house.
Winward grinned at seeing how the two women hovered in concern. “How many times have you been asked that question tonight?”
Tom saw Winward’s smile and his expression darkened. “Too many.”
Winward tried to curtail his grin and cleared his throat. “Understood. Where’s Hayes?”
“I last saw him in the Rage gallery. Or what’s left of it.”
“You might be interested to know we found the guy’s van parked around the corner. Empty, of course.”
“Will you be taking my paintings back with you?”
“Not tonight. It depends on the investigation if we’ll need them in the future or not. If it turns out the perpetrator acted alone, we’ll have no use for them. But, if we find there’s someone else involved, we’ll need them as evidence for a trial. In the meantime, we’ll use them as bait.”
They entered the Rage gallery and saw Hayes talking with Jonathan.
“Were you able to identify the guy?” Tom asked.
“Yeah,” Winward answered. “We checked the van’s registration. His name’s Roger Wilson. Ring any bells?”
Tom shook his head. “No.”
“He’s also the courier who brought us your Kingston address and business card this morning.”
“Which means he was working for someone else,” Jonathan said.
“Probably.”
Hayes turned to Tom. “Mr. Shear, we saw the paintings in your studio. Is that what you brought us here to see?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if we take another look?”
“Not at all.”
Tom led the way up to his studio in the attic. As he uncovered the paintings, Kelly gasped.
“I’ve seen this man,” she whispered, “in my nightmares.”
“Do you know who he is?” Tom asked, watching her.
“No. His face is always shadowed.”
“Mr. Shear, how did you come to paint these?” Hayes inquired.
Tom noticed that Hayes scrutinized the painting of Chandler’s hanging corpse and heaved a weary sigh. “Nightmares, Detective.”
“Do you know the man you’ve painted here?”
“Yes, I do,” he answered. “It’s Theodore Chandler. And he didn’t commit suicide, Detective Hayes. He was murdered.”
Winward and Hayes exchanged glances.
“Do you realize how this looks, Mr. Shear?” Hayes asked.
“Yes, he does,” Jonathan interrupted. “And I don’t think he should say anything else without consulting his attorney.”
“Jonathan’s right, Tom,” Kelly acceded. “Maybe you should call Mr. Carson.”
Tom leveled his gaze on Winward.
“You have every right to do so
, Mr. Shear,” Hayes stated.
“Are you going to arrest me?” Tom asked, holding Winward’s gaze.
Winward turned to the paintings. “Let’s think about the situation, shall we? As it stands right now, we have enough circumstantial evidence to build a case. Everything we have points to your guilt. These,” he said, pointing to the paintings, “are just the icing on the cake.”
Tom’s patience was wearing thin. “Are you going to arrest me?” he repeated.
The detective met his level gaze and heaved a sigh. He shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
Winward rubbed his bristled chin. “I’m going to be honest with you, Shear. While I had a few officers at my disposal, I had them conduct a full search of this house for a device that might’ve cast an image of that little girl while everyone of non-official capacity was kept sequestered in your den tonight.”
“That was illegal, you know,” Jonathan said, frowning.
“I’m aware of the technicalities, Mr. Fields.”
“What did they find?” Tom asked, ignoring the exchange.
“Nothing.”
Kelly looked from one detective to the other. “Do you believe us now?” she demanded.
“Miss Stafford, you’ve got to understand our position,” Hayes said. “As officers of the law, we deal with cold, hard facts. You have to admit, what’s being suggested here is—”
“Ridiculous? Fantasy? Hysteria?” Her green eyes flashed with anger. “You saw that little girl yourself, Detective. You saw her lead Tom to the gas. And you,” she said, unleashing her fury on Winward. “You said yourself that the man who attacked Tom was the one who delivered the package to you this morning. What more do you need?”
Tom embraced her, pulling her close. “Sweetheart, they just need time to sort things out. I think we need to give them the chance.”
“Tom’s right, Kelly,” Jonathan replied. “If they haven’t arrested him by now, that means they have more questions than answers. I don’t think they’re totally convinced he’s guilty. In fact, when you think about it, there’s quite a bit of evidence pointing to his innocence.”
Tom released his hold on Kelly and moved to cover the paintings. “Are we finished here, gentlemen?” he asked, breaking the thought-filled silence. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve had one hell of a day.”
“Come on, Kelly,” Marsha said, placing a comforting arm across her shoulders. “We’ll give you a ride home.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Yes, you are,” Tom said. She turned to him with a worried frown and he leaned down to give her lips a tender kiss. “I’ll be alright. Nothing else is going to happen tonight.”
“Then there’s no reason I can’t stay. I don’t want to leave you, Tom.”
“I know.” His smile was gentle as he gazed into her pleading green eyes. “But I don’t want you here, Kelly. The only way I’ll be able to sleep is to know you’re safely away from this house.”
“He’s right, Kelly.” Jonathan took her hand and turned her toward the stairs. “He’ll be okay after he gets some well-deserved rest.”
Tom saw everyone to the front door and gave Kelly a long, warming kiss before she was ushered out by Jonathan and Marsha. He watched her until she was safely in the backseat of their car, then turned to the departing detectives.
“Is my system busted?” he asked.
“No,” Winward answered, stepping out onto the porch. “He was wearing a backpack with the tools he needed to do the job when he ran. He had a device that retrieved your codes. You’ll want to change those as soon as possible, but your system should still function properly.”
“Good to know.”
“Get some rest,” Winward said as he followed Hayes down the porch steps.
“That’s the plan,” Tom confirmed before closing and locking the door. As he activated the alarm, the Impala’s motor rumbled to life. With sore muscles and a slightly aching head, he went through the house, securing locks and turning out lights. Then he climbed the stairs longing for a shower, his bed, and a healing, dreamless sleep.
Winward and Hayes didn’t speak as they got into the Impala. Winward backed out of the driveway and headed south on Church Street toward the station. The only sound was the swish of the tires on wet pavement, the low rumble of the engine, and the methodical thump of the wipers.
“I don’t think we should’ve left things the way we did,” Hayes said, breaking the silence.
“What do you mean?”
“If we couldn’t arrest him, we should’ve at least taken the paintings as evidence.”
“I don’t agree. We’ll need them as bait. They’d be no use to us locked up in the station’s evidence room.”
“At least they’d be protected. And what do you mean by ‘bait’? You think Shear’s innocent?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Then what do you think?”
Winward heaved a sigh. “Hell, I don’t know.” His grip tightened on the steering wheel. “I was there. I saw that little girl. I followed her to the gas and watched her walk through a solid wood door.” He glanced over at his partner. “Don, she was waiting for us on the other side. You talk about freaky, that was freaky.” He shook his head and from the corner of his eye, Winward saw Hayes’s shoulders shift like the big man was suppressing a shiver. “I do know one thing, though. If we’d been ten minutes later, that place would’ve gone up like a roman candle.”
“Don’t you think Shear could’ve set the whole thing up?”
“The thought crossed my mind. But my gut tells me no.”
“How can you be so sure?” Hayes asked. “What if he paid Roger Wilson to do his dirty work? That delivery could’ve been to point our suspicion in another direction, to make us wonder why anyone guilty would lay a bombshell like his own abuse at our feet to be used against him in our investigation. And don’t you think it’s ironic how we happened to arrive at the house just in the nick of time? And how Shear just happened to be alone when Wilson attacked? The fact that Wilson was killed couldn’t have been more convenient. The only other witness that could’ve done him harm has been eliminated.
“And those paintings of Chandler and the mystery man.” He stopped and shook his head. “Mark, he had details of Chandler’s suicide that only a handful of people know about. Did you see the stiletto knife lying against the baseboard in the exact position it was found? Hell, it was depicted perfectly, right down to the pearl handle. I just can’t believe he got such detail from a nightmare. My dreams aren’t that explicit. Are yours?”
Winward cast Hayes a sidelong glance, his mouth quirking with amusement. “Down right chatty today, aren’t we? I’m impressed.”
Hayes gave Winward a scathing look.
“Okay, okay. No need to get testy.” Winward heaved another sigh. “Look. Believe me, I know what you’re saying, Don,” he conceded. “Everything you’ve said makes sense. But aren’t you forgetting something important? I’ve looked at the file photos enough to know that the little girl we saw was Caroline Doltry, the fifth victim.”
“Agreed. So what’s your point?”
“My point is this. If the whole thing was staged, how’d he do it?”
“He would need a recorded image and a projection device,” Hayes said.
“Then why wasn’t that device found? The men knew what they were looking for. The place was thoroughly searched. Hell, we even had detectors and still couldn’t find anything.”
“So you’re suggesting what we saw was an actual ghost?” Hayes asked, his tone incredulous as he watched his partner.
Winward gave the question some thought as he braked for a red light. “Yeah,” he answered. “I guess that’s what I’m suggesting.”
Hayes’s laughter rumbled in his broad chest. “The chief’s gonna have a conniption. You know that, don’t you?”
Winward’s lips curved into a grin as he pulled through the intersection.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Chief Swainer rested his bony elbows on his desk as he leaned forward in his chair. He eyed the two detectives. “You actually expect me to believe that cock-n-bull story?”
Winward stood at the rain dappled window, watching the encroaching clouds through the thin plastic slats of the open blinds. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and shrugged, barely noticing as the movement tugged on the shoulder holster that kept his 9mm strapped securely against his ribs.
“I know what I saw last night, chief.” He looked at Swainer and held his stern gaze.
“Mark, listen to what you’re saying.” Swainer pushed himself up from his chair. “You’re telling me you saw a ghost for Christ’s sake.” He propped himself on the corner of his desk and pierced Winward with his eyes. His hand automatically patted his empty breast pocket, and he let out a low, heartfelt curse.
“Chief, all I’m saying is, if it was staged, I can’t figure out how he did it.”
“You’re sure the search was thorough?”
“Yes. I led the search myself. The place was clean. There was nothing whatsoever that could’ve projected that little girl’s image.”
“And you’re sure it was Caroline Doltry,” Swainer probed, looking at Hayes.
The big man sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his immense chest, and nodded.
Swainer shook his head as he contemplated the situation. “What about Roger Wilson? What’d you find on him?”
“He was a jack-of-all-trades,” Hayes said. “His rap sheet reads like a dictionary, but his only conviction was for stealing a car when he was fourteen; spent six months in juvie. After that, he got smart and learned to cover his tracks. Even though he was brought in numerous times on suspicion, he was never charged.”
“And Shear? What about him?”
Winward stepped away from the window. “He’s clean. Not so much as a parking ticket.” He began a slow pacing. “Besides, I’m not totally convinced Thomas Shear is the kind of man capable of murdering eight little girls.”
“And what are you basing that on?” Swainer asked, watching his man closely.
“My instincts,” Winward replied, halting his motion to meet Swainer’s eyes.
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