The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1)

by Lichtenberg, Fred;

  I point the long neck bottle in Paddy’s direction. “I already have.”

  His eyes lock on mine. “Prove it!”

  “I intend to. And if you think once Wayne takes over my job, the investigation is dead, you’re wrong. I’ve got connections with the county. I worked homicide, remember? All I have to do is pick up the phone and tell a sympathetic ear the investigation is being stymied.” I wink. “You’ll have detectives living in your pants.”

  Paddy doesn’t reply. He’s probably wondering if I’m blowing smoke up his ass. “To the investigation,” I say and treat myself to the rest of the Guinness.

  “Yeah, well they might just go after you as well. You’re as much a cuckold as I am.”

  My calm expression belies the anger inside me. “Since you seem to know what went on, why don’t you tell me about Susan and Hunter?”

  Paddy stares down at his beer. “I found some love letters in Sheryl’s closet.” He glances over at me. “They belonged to Susan. When I confronted Sheryl about them, she told me that Hunter and Susan were having an affair. She begged me not to tell you.” Paddy shrugs. “I would have kept the promise if you hadn’t pressed me.”

  My eyes hold steady on Paddy.

  “You look like you can use another drink.”

  I nod as Paddy scoops another beer from the ice chest under the bar. He removes the cap and hands me the beer. “You see, Hank, either of us could have killed the bastard. We both had motive.”

  “Like I said, I didn’t know about it at the time.”

  Paddy shrugs. “That’s what you say now.”

  I don’t believe for a moment that Sheryl told Paddy anything. Yet Paddy knows about Hunter and Susan.

  He picks up on my silence. “I think about it all the time, too, Hank. Makes me crazy.”

  “Enough to kill her,” I accuse.

  “You’re wrong, and you’ll never prove it.”

  I take one long gulp from my Guinness, remove the warrant from my jacket pocket, slap it on the bar, then place my half-empty bottle on top. “Let’s find out.”

  Paddy tugs at the warrant, knocking over the bottle and sending beer streaming down the bar. “You fuck! You couldn’t wait.”

  I point a finger at him. “The sooner I get you, the better.”

  “Go ahead, search the bar! You’re not gonna find anything. I promise.”

  Paddy’s remark makes me uneasy. “I’ll start inside.” I leave Paddy, storm into his office, and flip on the light. This, too, is unsettling, since the light was on when I rifled through his desk yesterday. I hadn’t turned it off.

  Rather than waste anyone’s time, I go directly to his desk, remove a pair of elastic gloves from my jacket pocket, and fit them over my hands. I force the drawer open like I had yesterday and find the envelopes where I left them. I then help myself to a slight grin.

  I search for the can of strychnine, but it’s missing. I get on my hands and knees and reach inside the drawer, but the poison is gone.

  The letters will have to do. I slide myself into a chair, open the top letter, and begin reading. I stop, drop the first letter on the desk, and search the next one. These aren’t the love letters I found yesterday. These are typed. And they don’t belong to Sheryl. And the joint suicide note is missing!

  “Is that what you were after, Hank?”

  My head shoots up. Paddy is leaning against the door, beer in hand. He’s savoring a big smile, the grieving husband.

  “You bastard!” I leap over the desk and fall short of him, pick myself up, and grab him by the throat, swearing, threatening. Paddy’s face is turning blue, his hands are on mine, but my grip is too powerful. He’s trying to say something, but my hands are clamped around his neck and squeezing. Every part of me is burning inside; my head is pounding. I want to kill someone for the hell I’ve been through, and Paddy is gonna be the one.

  Someone is shouting behind me, but I can’t stop; I’m blinded by rage. My hands won’t let go of the killer.

  “Murderer!” I scream.

  Wayne’s arms are locked in mine as he pulls me off Paddy, who drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes. He’s gasping for air, then vomits on his leg.

  “You’re crazy, Hank!” Paddy forces out. “He tried to kill me, like he did the others.”

  I’m sitting on the floor next to Paddy, my head spinning. My world is coming to an end. I feel the butt of my .38 inside my jacket and for a split second, I’m thinking of blowing everyone away.

  Wayne is attending to Paddy, helping him off the floor.

  “Crazy,” Paddy growls, holding his throat. “It’s a good thing I called the stationhouse.”

  I gaze over at my deputy, then back to Paddy.

  “He already threatened me once.” Paddy shoots a look over at Wayne for approval.

  Wayne dismisses Paddy’s comments and turns to me. “What happened, Hank?”

  How do I explain what I’ve been feeling these past few weeks?

  “I oughta sue you for this. I just buried my wife,” Paddy moans, holding his throat. “You got what you wanted. Now leave me alone.”

  “What’s he talking about, Hank?”

  I ignore Wayne. “I’m gonna get you, with or without the evidence you destroyed.”

  “Yeah, well maybe you oughta check with your office. I had a break-in yesterday, or didn’t you know? That’s the guy you need to go after.”

  I wipe Paddy’s sweat and grime on my pants, then pull myself off the floor. The bastard knows I’ve already been here.

  Sixteen

  Wayne and I are sitting in my patrol car after leaving Paddy in his own vomit. “I’ll be back to fry your ass,” I told Paddy with a bit of Schwarzenegger bravado. He didn’t appear shaken by my threat; Paddy knows the hard evidence against him is burned, buried, or moved to a new location. My thoughts stay on him until Wayne taps me on the shoulder. “Are you listening to me, Hank?”

  I turn, still fuming.

  “What were you thinking back there? You almost killed him.”

  I let Wayne continue his admonishment, knowing it has nothing to do with my actions. He couldn’t care less if I strangled Paddy for what he did to Sheryl; it has to do with this impending rigged election.

  “He deserved it,” I charge.

  “You’re a cop, Hank! I don’t think you can be objective anymore.”

  He’s right. I’m too personally involved. Perhaps that’s why Wayne strongly urges me to step aside. Or, quite possibly, my deputy has a hidden agenda.

  Wayne’s expression suggests he is asking for my blessing. Fat chance. Wayne is no homicide detective; he’s better off investigating missing farm animals. “You’re right. I’m gonna get the county involved.”

  Wayne’s jaw drops. “We have enough deputies here to handle it.”

  He’s serious. “Nothing personal, Wayne, but I was a homicide detective for eight years, and if I’m having a hard time solving the murders, you and the rest of the guys—”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” he interrupts. “You’re trying to solve the case yourself.” Then he mumbles, “You should have stayed with the county.”

  Underneath that cherub face and easy demeanor lurks an angry soul. Every once in a while, it surfaces. Wayne believes he should have been elected police chief after my father died in office—not that he died while performing his official duties. Will Reed died of a heart attack attempting to bring in a big white off Orient Point. Maybe it wasn’t that big.

  Anyway, a few years before he considered retirement, my father talked me into leaving the Suffolk County Homicide Department and joining Eastpoint’s Finest. His motive was clear: he wanted to perpetuate his namesake as chief of police. The town loved ol’ Will, and he promised they would love me, too. He offered me a cut in pay, but promised it would be offset handsomely by the prestige of being top honcho. Wayne never forgave my father for overlooking him and felt betrayed. And since I was guilty by association, Wayne never forgave me, either.
And so, if the devil inside Wayne emerges through quick, caustic remarks, I understand.

  “This is not the time for past differences,” I tell him evenly.

  “It’s never time,” he complains.

  There really isn’t anything further to discuss, but I say, “I never wanted to hurt you, Wayne. I never realized how badly you wanted the job.” I’m pacifying him, but in reality he wouldn’t have won if Kate ran against him. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great secretary, but I think you get my point. Wayne isn’t the brightest bulb in the box.

  “What was Paddy talking about back there?”

  “Just some bullshit.”

  He thumbs the back seat. “That it?”

  I nod.

  He stretches for the letters, and I grab his arm. “I just want you to know the stuff in there isn’t true. But it could be evidence, so use a handkerchief.”

  Wayne nods, then digs deep into his pocket and pulls one out that looks like it’s been through a few colds.

  “Believe me, there’s no truth in them,” I emphasize.

  Wayne ponders my remark. “Could be Paddy was protecting Sheryl.”

  Maybe Wayne isn’t as dense as I thought, except he’s got the wrong scribe. “Look, I found some letters yesterday. Not the ones you’re holding. Sheryl’s love letters to Hunter.”

  He gives me a puzzled look. “I thought you got the warrant today.”

  I give him a look back, and he gets it.

  “You’re the one who broke in?”

  I nod sheepishly.

  “Shit, Hank, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. You can’t run this investigation anymore.”

  “I told you that in confidence. Besides, the letters I found yesterday are gone. Someone tipped Paddy off. Was it you?”

  “Are you fucking crazy? I hate the bastard. I know he killed his wife.”

  I nod. “Those letters you’re looking at have to do with Hunter’s murder, not Sheryl’s.”

  Wayne blinks.

  “Right now, we need to let Hunter’s murder ride out for a while or the town is gonna hang both of us.”

  Wayne thinks a moment. “You’re sure the original letters were destroyed?”

  “They weren’t where I found them yesterday, so I have to believe Paddy got rid of them.”

  He waves the letters in my face. “And you’re sure these aren’t them?”

  “Right.”

  Wayne sits quietly for a moment, then says, “We can’t destroy them, Hank. Not unless we can prove they’re fake.”

  I remain silent.

  “You understand?”

  Maybe he would make a good detective. “Whatever you say. But before you make a decision one way or the other, have an open mind and understand what Paddy is capable of doing.”

  My deputy is about to read the top letter when I ask, “Who talked you into the election? I know it wasn’t you, even though you’d kill for my job.”

  He peers out the window and shrugs. “I don’t know, Hank, I swear. The petition was already prepared. It made sense at the time. Still does. I guess some citizens got together—”

  “Like the signers of Declaration of Independence,” I quip.

  He scowls. “Go ahead, make fun, but they’re right. You’re gonna make a circus out of this town if those paintings go public.”

  I lock my eyes on Wayne. “And who leaked their existence in the first place? I checked with the other deputies and Kate. They swear it didn’t come from them. Are you gonna swear to me, too?”

  Wayne doesn’t respond.

  I study my deputy, who is immersed in the first letter. Would Wayne let Susan fry? Or would he grant her freedom to elevate his career? Police Chief Wayne Andrews!

  “Paddy told me he found those letters in Sheryl’s closet,” I tell my deputy. “He figures Sheryl and Susan were good friends and didn’t keep secrets from each other. Not even when it came to Hunter. Paddy wants me to believe the revolving door to Hunter’s place was girlfriend friendly and that Susan, who recently started an affair with Hunter, was already thinking of killing him. Does that make any sense to you?”

  Wayne mutters something but doesn’t hear a word I’m saying. He and his dirty handkerchief are miles away in romance heaven. When he finishes the last letter, he looks up. “These are damaging.”

  No kidding! You don’t have to be a homicide detective to come to that conclusion. But I let it go; let him have his day.

  “I really should follow up on this, Hank. I mean, I know it’s Susan but…” He stops, scratches his head. “Then again, the town wouldn’t appreciate me expanding Hunter’s investigation, would they?”

  Wayne hadn’t used the we word about following up. Obviously, I’m not about to interrogate my own wife, though I had before. But that was off the record.

  “That’s why I think we need to concentrate on Sheryl’s murder instead.”

  Wayne considers my proposal. He must be thinking if we stop Hunter’s investigation, there won’t be a need for an election. “How about this, Hank?” he starts. “If I can prove who killed Sheryl before you, you’ll step aside.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Who knows, maybe we won’t have to pursue Hunter’s killer after all.”

  A tough bargainer, that Wayne. Though my deputy has me in a tight spot, I gaze out the window as if I’m pondering his idea. As for finding Sheryl’s killer first, it might be a draw. I turn to Wayne and nod. “Deal.”

  He’s about to shake my hand and realizes how foolish it looks. Instead, he says, “I’m going back to the bar and search for Paddy’s gun. Maybe he hasn’t disposed of it yet.”

  “Good idea. I’ll take the letters to the lab and have them dusted.”

  He stops me. “I’ll hold onto them for a while,” he says without hesitation. “Just in case.”

  I smell blackmail. Maybe Wayne isn’t as dumb as I thought.

  Wayne and I go our separate ways. We’re working independently for a while, which suits me just fine. I pull out from Salty’s and catch Wayne through my rearview mirror. He appears to be hesitating, but finally ducks back into the bar as though he’s on a secret mission. That’s my detective.

  The crime lab is located in Hauppauge, attached to the medical examiner’s office. I call ahead and speak to Jerry Brandt, a forensic guy. He tells me I must have been reading his mind because he was about to call me.

  I assume Jerry’s interest in me has to do with Sheryl’s murder. “Have you found the spent shell?” I venture.

  “Not yet, Hank. The rain probably washed it away or it’s buried somewhere in the sand.” He pauses. “There’s something else. We recovered photographs from the victim’s car. They were under the floor mat on the driver’s side. I figure maybe the victim put them there when she sensed danger.”

  “What sort of photos?” I ask, my heart beating faster.

  “The sexy kind. I thought they might have something to do with the murder.”

  I regard Jerry’s remark. “Is Sheryl, the victim, in any of them?”

  “No, some other woman and a guy. They posed for all of them. The babe’s got big tits.”

  “Can you describe her for me, outside of the tits, I mean?”

  Jerry laughs. “Hold on, let me check.” He comes back to the phone a few moments later. “Oh, yeah, this one is better. She’s got dark sexy eyes and long black hair. Think you might know her?”

  “Could be.”

  “Well, hurry up and bring some protection. There’s a lot of heat coming out of these.”

  I smile to myself. “I should be there in less than a half hour if the traffic holds up.”

  Brandt is sitting behind his desk reading some technical magazine when I pop my head in. He is wearing elastic gloves and chuckling to himself. I must be in the wrong profession.

  I knock. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  He glances up still chuckling. “Hank.” He stands and approaches me, his arms open.

  “Been a while,” I say, meeting him halfway
.

  “Damn, you look terrible. You get into a fight or something?” he says, squeezing my aching body.

  He should only know. “It’s these cases. They’re driving me crazy. How about you? Heard you got married.”

  He lets go of me and smiles. “I finally found true love.”

  You have to understand, Jerry is a lady’s man. True love for him can only last so long. “You told me that last time,” I say. “And the time before that.”

  He grins. “That was before Jeanie entered the picture.”

  We both laugh.

  “It’s been years, Hank,” Jerry says. “How many murders did we solve together?”

  “I stopped counting.”

  He smiles. “And Susan, how is she?”

  My eyes shift to the floor. “I moved out recently.”

  “You’re kidding? I thought you guys were solid.”

  I shrug. “The marriage thawed out.”

  “Gee, that’s too bad.”

  “So tell me about the photos,” I say, changing the subject. “Is there anything written on the backs?”

  “No. And no explanation needed, either,” he cracks. “They’re standard Polaroids in living color with lots of smiles and body parts.” Jerry returns to his desk, opens a drawer, and removes an envelope, then he lays out the glossies like he’s dealing a deck of cards.

  I look down, somewhat embarrassed, since I know the parties—Paddy Murphy and Jackie Hopkins, and examine them from a distance. The happy infidels. “Whose prints did you find on them?” I ask.

  “Only the victim’s.”

  I’m wondering how Sheryl had them in her possession. Could she have been the photographer?

  “I gather you know these folks,” Jerry says, interrupting my thoughts.

  I nod. “He’s the victim’s husband and she was the wife of another victim, Peter Hopkins. He killed himself.” I point to one of the photographs. “She was also doing Hunter.”

  Jerry meets my eyes and smiles. “The woman gets around. Wouldn’t mind playing hide the baloney with her.”