homes also were behind very similar wrought-iron fences.
Calloway loved art. His weakness was art. He didn’t collect art to brag or show off, he collected it because it was his obsession and he had to have it. He had to sit in a room by himself with a glass of the very best wine, listening to his favorite opera, surrounded by the most magnificent paintings others couldn’t possibly appreciate the way he did, knowing nothing in the world would ever compare to them.
It was a thrill to be able to acquire a painting. It required a great deal of money, patience and knowing the right people. He had, over time, managed to put together all three components and then he’d built his private, temperature-controlled room where he housed his collection of stolen art. For him, the fact that he had acquired the paintings that way, targeted them and hired the right people to pull off a daring robbery of a museum to take the original painting from masses of people with no real concept of what they were looking at, or real appreciation of the masterpiece they were privileged to behold, made his collection all the sweeter.
He despised those who claimed they loved art when they had no real knowledge of the subject. They stared at some drawing and pretended to know the meaning because a teacher in school had quoted from a book and now they were parroting him or her. They couldn’t think for themselves. Or have any real impression.
Calloway wandered through his home, admiring what he had done with the place. When he’d first moved into the house, he had seen the potential immediately. He had a good eye for space, and he wanted an upscale neighborhood, but not one that would stand out like that braggart Holden. He didn’t need everyone to think he was a multimillionaire. He didn’t want the aggravation of trying to explain where money had come from. Fortunately, he’d inherited a little bit from his wife, who’d died very early in their marriage, and he’d never remarried. He’d invested the money and doubled it and then doubled that. He’d been careful and cautious. That had paid off.
He moved through his house the way he did every evening. Walking slowly. Savoring the Bay Area setting sun pouring through the stained-glass windows set at just the right height to catch the rays and send them shooting through the rooms like stars to shine on the walls, giving him the feeling of walking in galaxies, he moved toward his hidden collector’s room as he did most nights. He took his time, admiring the sculptures and modern art he had acquired and showed off to visitors who dropped by.
He’d made a few mistakes over the years. Holden was one, but he couldn’t really complain as he’d made quite a lot of his money from the repulsive man. It had been that one case he could never quite get out of his mind, that one blunder that preyed on him even now after his retirement. Scarlet Foley. She’d been a brilliant girl. Far more intelligent than Holden’s weak-willed, entitled son. Holden had paid through the nose time and again to keep the psychopath he’d raised out of jail. Scarlet had been on her way to do great things; with her intelligent mind, she grasped concepts quickly.
Even at the very young age of seventeen, it was clear she understood what was happening, the lies and railroading going on. She had looked at her attorney and had known he was rolling over for Holden. She had looked at Calloway with those same too-intelligent eyes as well. He hadn’t wanted to send her to prison, but at the time, there had been a Picasso he had needed more than his self-respect and he didn’t yet have his art addiction under control. She had been the catalyst for him to find a way to stop his obsessive need to continually buy paintings. He’d slowed down after he had taken Holden’s outrageous payout for sending an innocent teenager to prison.
She was a fighter. He would never forget that look she gave him. Steady. Those green eyes sometimes woke him up in the middle of the night, staring straight into his eyes. Intelligent. Knowing. It had been a terrible shame about her sister. He knew Holden’s pitiful son and his friends had raped her and driven her to suicide. Foley’s parents dead, murder-suicide that same night? That was awful.
Calloway sighed as he poured