“I’m not a bit surprised,” Jonathan said, draping his arm over Marsha’s shoulders as they followed Tom across the foyer. “There’s just no escaping the charismatic charm of a virile man, darlin’. Haven’t you learned that by now? You’ve certainly been exposed to the phenomena often enough. Hanging out with Tom and I should’ve taught you the warning signs.”
Marsha rolled her hazel eyes and laughed. “When I start needing a club to fight my way through a throng of drooling women, I’ll buy one.”
“Christmas is right around the corner, you know.”
“If I find a club under the tree, Jonathan Fields, the first thing I’ll use it on is your head to deflate that delusional ego of yours.”
Tom’s smile widened as he entered the room of Innocence. He realized Marsha’s description wasn’t far off as he watched the women of the student committee, and a couple he didn’t recognize, gathered around Jason with mooning eyes. He almost laughed to see Mary Ann Cooper’s hostile stare daring them to venture too close.
“Quite the lady’s man,” he replied as Kelly came to stand beside him, wrapping her arms around his waist.
“He has a good teacher.” Her smile turned impish as she watched his surprise. “You’re his role model, you know.”
“I am?”
Jonathan smirked with amusement. “Be careful how you tread, Tom. It would appear you hold the fate of either success or failure for that young man’s sexual future in the palms of your hands.”
“Jonathan?”
“Yes, Tom?”
“Shut up.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As daylight descended, the temperature dropped, transforming the day-long drizzle into crystals of sleet that fell in a soothing pitter-pat rhythm. He closed the heavy drapes against the winter night and tightened the belt of his blue silk robe. Lifting a snifter to his lips, he leveled his gaze on the brown leather album lying open on a low table.
He knew he should’ve gotten rid of it. But its beckoning power overrode his self-preserving instincts. Instead, he kept it hidden, taking it out only when his reminiscent urges became too overpowering to resist.
It was his one true weakness, the one indulgence he had allowed himself over the years. Leafing through the album’s stiff pages, each one a bittersweet reminder of the budding lives he had so ruthlessly extinguished, filled him with swelling triumph. Their individual lives had meant nothing to him each time he’d focused his Polaroid camera, but their suffering had; that’s what he saw whenever he permitted himself to peruse the pages.
He sipped from his snifter once more and took a step closer. As he looked down into the bruised, swollen eyes of Amanda Sawyer, his expression grew smug before his gaze shifted to the corresponding newspaper clipping.
“You shouldn’t have been born a girl, you know,” he said, stroking the tiny, terror-stricken face in the photo. “I had to do it. If I hadn’t, you would’ve grown up to be a deceitful, slutting woman like all the rest. I couldn’t allow that.”
His eyes grew glazed as a memory of a touch whispered in his mind. The memory solidified and his heartbeat quickened. His skin began to tingle beneath its gentle caress as he remembered his mother taking him into her bed to begin his lessons by letting him suckle at her breast as she stroked his hair, pulling him closer. At first, her coaxing moans had frightened him until she laughed softly and explained that what he did made her feel good in the way only a man could make her feel. His ten-year-old ego soared at being thought of as a man. And as time went by and he grew bolder, she began to teach him the giving, and taking, of sexual pleasure. The feel of his mother’s smooth, warm skin beneath his fingers as she encouraged his tentative explorations had been exciting. Fascinated by her soft moans and the reaction of his own inexperienced body, he quickly became a willing, eager student.
But as he grew older and became more demanding, her attention began to wane. When she began seeing other men and became pregnant as a result, he was enraged. He loathed the sight of her extended belly and the way she waddled when she walked during her last trimester.
After the baby girl was born, he expected things to return to the way they had once been, but they didn’t. Instead, he became an outcast. His mother doted on the child constantly. He could feel the love that rightfully belonged to him slipping through his fingers. He could do nothing to stop it and his resentment deepened as he watched the child flourish.
“Emily,” he sneered. His eyes grew wild as he hurled his glass against the wall. He watched it shatter into a thousand glittering shards as its contents trickled like tears.
“Damn you!” His nostrils flared as he breathed deeply to maintain his self-control. “I was twenty. I was a man. I needed her! Can’t you see I had no choice?”
He paced to the bar and filled another snifter with cognac. He took a long pull, wiped his chin with his sleeve, and laughed.
“It was so easy,” he whispered, staring with unfocused eyes. A contented smile played along his lips. “You followed me so trustingly. Even as I picked up the brick and raised it above my head, you watched with wide, trusting eyes.”
His musing gaze clouded with suspicion. “Why didn’t you cry out?” he asked. “I crushed your skull and you didn’t make a sound. Why?”
He remembered her whimpering moans as he carried her to the well. He had been glad she didn’t die instantly. She was going to suffer as he had suffered for six long years, and the thought had filled him with bitter satisfaction.
After Emily’s death, he had anxiously awaited the return of his mother’s affection. Instead, she had grown more withdrawn, sitting for hours in silence, pinning him beneath her stare. Somehow, she had known.
“It took them only hours to find your body,” he said, his voice hardening. “Two weeks later, I found hers.”
He ran his hand across his face as if to wipe the memory away and drank deeply before refilling his glass. His gaze returned to the album and his body quaked with the thought of the paintings still hanging in Shear Gallery. He’d planned it all so carefully. Now everything had been ruined by a smartass punk.
“Idiot!” he shouted, slamming his glass down. “You deserved to die for being so stupid. Those paintings should be mine now, and Shear should’ve been left in ruins. Now, thanks to you, dear Roger, he’ll become more challenging than ever.”
He began to pace as his mind raced with calculating precision.
“Shear’s a clever man. If he talks to that bitch Merideth Chandler, he’ll realize the truth. And when he does, I’ll be ruined.”
He stopped abruptly and his eyes fell to the album. I’ve got to get rid of it. It’s the only piece of damning evidence there is.
A smile curved his lips. As an idea began to take form, his smile broadened until he was cackling with laughter.
The last car pulled away and Tom closed the door. Leaning against it, he watched Kelly smile sympathetically and felt her fingers slide through his black hair.
“You look worn out.”
“I am,” he answered, triumph shining in his eyes, a smile playing on his lips.
“You should be,” Jonathan said while holding Marsha’s coat as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. “There were people in and out of here all day. And they were all clamoring for your attention. Especially the women.” He waggled an eyebrow. “I can tell you, it was a sight to see.”
“You’re not kidding,” Marsha said, straightening Jonathan’s coat collar. “There’s still a small town mentality about this place, you know. Before long, Thomas Shear is going to be a household name.”
“I think it already is,” Kelly said. “The drama that played out here last night has the gossip grapevine sizzling. One conversation I overheard had Tom pegged as an international spy working with the police to break an underground art smuggling ring. According to one source that no one could actually name, there were bodies strewn all over the yard after the gunfight with the police.”
Jonathan laughed outrigh
t. “I know what you mean, Kelly. I had one woman sidle up to me, her eyes blazing with curiosity, and ask in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Is it true?’ and I whispered back, ‘Is what true?’, and she answers, ‘That Thomas Shear is a playboy secret agent.’”
“No!” Marsha gasped and laughed. “How did you answer that?”
“I leaned down to whisper in her ear, ‘Yes. But you can’t tell anyone.’ Then she drew back fanning herself and said, ‘I understand,’ before making a beeline to a group of women watching us.”
Tom chuckled shaking his head as he walked around the foyer snuffing the ensconced candles. The smell of burnt wick and wax filled the air. The two floor lamps standing in the corners were left on. “Great. Just the reputation I was hoping for. I actually had a man, a neighbor from across the street, come up to me and ask me point blank ‘What happened here last night?’ I told him a burglar triggered the alarm and the police shot the guy before he could shoot them.”
“Regardless,” Kelly said, pride shimmering in her eyes as she watched him, “you should be proud of yourself. Even with all of the intrigue, you managed to sell a couple of your paintings, didn’t you?”
“I did. But it was probably because of the intrigue.”
Ignoring Jonathan and Marsha, Tom pulled Kelly into his arms. His grin faded as he lowered his head and gave her a languid kiss.
Jonathan smiled crookedly. “I think that’s our cue to leave.”
“Jonathan, darling, have you looked outside? We should’ve left an hour ago.”
“Come on,” Tom said, keeping his eyes on Kelly. “I’ll follow you home before this weather gets any worse.”
“I left my coat on your bed. I’ll run up and get it.”
Her voice was husky as she met his gaze with soft, alluring eyes. She turned away, and Tom’s smile grew lazy as he took a moment to admire her heart-shaped, jean-clad bottom.
“You guys wait a minute. We’ll walk you out,” he said. “Kelly, wait. I’ll come with you.”
She opened her mouth to protest then clamped it shut as she cast a hesitant glance to the top of the stairs. The only light sources illuminating the landing were lamps emanating from the den and bedroom doorways down the hall. Tom was filled with remorse at the apprehension he saw in her eyes.
Before he had a chance to move toward Kelly, a knock resounded through the quiet house. Peering over his shoulder, Tom stared at the front door in disbelief.
“Now what?”
Tom jerked the door open and watched as Detective Winward stepped inside.
“Oh please, do come in,” he said, closing the door with an irritable thud.
“You don’t seem happy to see me, Mr. Shear.” An amused grin flitted across the detective’s face.
“That’s very perceptive. I’m impressed.” Tom crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe taking in Winward’s appearance. “How long have you been out there?”
Winward ran his hand over his wet head and grimaced. “Long enough. Next time I’m wearing my parka.”
Jonathan looked dubious. “Where’s Detective Hayes? You didn’t leave him shivering in the cold, did you?”
Winward flashed a grin. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Why didn’t you come in sooner?”
“I didn’t want to be interrupted, or overheard, by pesky neighbors. You had a busy day today, Shear. Congratulations.”
Tom ignored the compliment. “Can’t it wait? I was just about to see Kelly home.”
“I’m not worried about Miss Stafford hearing what I have to say although Mr. Fields and Miss Webster are free to go.”
“You’re not getting rid of us that easily,” Jonathan challenged.
“Look, Detective,” Tom said. “Anything you have to say can be said. Everyone here knows what’s going on.”
Winward hesitated and then shrugged. “All right then. I lied this afternoon, Mr. Shear. I knew you went to see Merideth Chandler.”
The corner of Tom’s mouth lifted in a forbearing smile. “I expected as much. But why the game? I really don’t think your little deception fooled anyone. Everyone in the study today, with the exception of Michael Raymond, knows I’m considered a suspect.”
“That’s right. But I think you’re overlooking one important point.”
“Which is?”
“The break-in. It’s obvious Roger Wilson bungled the job by getting caught, so therefore, his only accomplishment was to throw doubt on any suspicions we might have about you. His accomplice, if there is one, will know this. Odds are he’ll accept the idea that the surveillance team you saw is the only one watching you and this house.”
Tom remained silent, his brow furrowed in thought.
Winward continued. “I had a hunch everyone connected with the case would find an excuse to be here today. I’m proud to say, Mr. Shear, you played your part to a tee. You couldn’t have asked better questions if I’d coached you myself.”
“Do you mean you wanted your men to be seen?” Kelly asked.
“The one team, yes,” Tom responded. “He’ll probably let the men sit for a couple of days and then move them to another, more discreet, location to make the person responsible think they’ve been removed altogether. If he takes the bait, maybe he’ll make his next move.”
“Precisely,” Winward acclaimed. “And when he does, we’ll have him.”
“How many men do you have on surveillance, detective?”
Winward shrugged. “Enough.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone was here today, like you said, with the exception of Craig Raymond.”
Winward’s dark eyes glinted. A small smile raised the corner of his mouth. “I’m not overly worried about Craig Raymond. I’m gambling his son will inform him of the day’s developments.”
“Are you saying you think Michael Raymond overheard the entire conversation?” Jonathan asked.
“Oh, I made sure of it. Michael Raymond pulled in as I entered the house. By sending Miss Stafford up to announce my arrival, I bought the time I needed to make sure he saw me.
I knew he’d be curious enough to follow. All I had to do was commence with a little chit-chat until he had time to position himself outside the door.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself, and of Michael Raymond,” Tom replied.
Winward dismissed Tom’s misgivings with a wave of his hand. “I want to hear about your visit to Merideth Chandler. Did you speak to her?” he asked.
“No. But I was allowed to leave a note. I was assured she’d receive it.”
“What did your note say?”
“That I knew her husband was innocent and that I needed her help.”
Winward looked at Tom in surprise. “That was a pretty gutsy statement, Mr. Shear, considering the position you’re in.”
Tom gave Winward a deadpan stare. “I’m aware of that, detective. I can only hope she’ll take me seriously enough to respond.”
“If she does, I want to be informed.”
“You and everyone else.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m serious, Shear.” Winward held Tom’s gaze. “If she makes contact with you, I want to know about it.”
“You will, Detective,” Tom said, his voice flat. “As soon as I talk to her—if I talk to her—I’ll tell you all about it.”
Winward shook his head. “That’s not good enough.”
“What do you mean, ‘that’s not good enough’? What more do you want?”
“You don’t really expect me to let you go alone, do you?”
Tom bit off a reply. His jaw clenched as his gaze fused with Winward’s. “I guess not.”
Satisfied, Winward gave a small smile and nodded.
“Detective Winward, may I say something?” Marsha asked, drawing everyone’s attention.
Winward turned to face her. “Of course,
Miss Webster. Say away.”
“You know that Tom’s not the man you’re looking for, don’t you?”
“And what makes you think that?”
“For one thing, the candid way you’re talking with us. For another, you wouldn’t be much of a detective if you did. You know as well as I do he doesn’t fit the profile.”
“And on what are you basing your opinion?”
“Experience, Detective.”
“Miss Webster, you’ve known Mr. Shear a long time. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“Then couldn’t it be possible your professional judgment is clouded by your emotional attachment?”
Marsha gave Winward a thin smile. “Don’t patronize me, detective. I’ve researched and performed enough case studies to strongly suspect the person you should be looking for is a psychopath.”
“I agree. But we also have to look at the evidence, and the majority of it is pointing to your friend here.”
Marsha released an impatient sigh. “A psychopath has one defining feature that sets him apart from others engaged in criminal activities. He’s cold, heartless. He lacks emotional response. He feels nothing for the pain he causes. A psychopath’s brain doesn’t function like those who are non-psychopathic. MRI brain scans show a dramatically different processing between normal men and psychopaths while observing emotionally provocative events.
“The scan of a psychopath displays very little color in the brain stem area where the scan of a normal man reveals striking color patterns radiating toward the temporal lobes, thereby indicating extensive brain activity. In other words, a psychopath has no conscience. No remorse. Only a person lacking those abilities could’ve performed these brutal crimes. There’s also a probability, considering the type of victims he’s chosen, that sexual abuse by an adult female when he was a child triggered his murdering instincts.”
“You are aware that Mr. Shear was a victim of abuse as well, aren’t you?”
“I am. But there’s a huge difference. Tom exhibits none of the traits I’ve mentioned. He shows no signs of the characteristics indicative of a psychopathic personality. More importantly, Tom’s no longer a victim. He’s a survivor. With the help of therapy, he was able to come to terms with what happened to him. He accepted who he was, therefore enabling himself to begin the healing process and move on.”
Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1) Page 25