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

by Lichtenberg, Fred;

  “Hank, did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Jerry? You could say that. I’m in pursuit.”

  A short pause, then, “I don’t think this can wait. We made a mistake back at the lab.”

  My eyes dart about for signs of life. “What kind of a mistake?”

  Jerry goes into extended detail about how the crime lab sends out prints for identification to confirm his findings.

  “Jerry,” I charge impatiently. “I’m in pursuit!”

  “Sorry, Hank.” He comes back with a shorter version, and as my brain comprehends the screw-up, my vision strays back to the patrol car.

  I enter the summer community, picking up my pace, my boots crunching on the pine needles that carpet the forest floor. Between the denseness from the trees and the dark sky, the place has an eerie feel about it. After passing several cabins, I spot a late-model white Lincoln Town Car about twenty yards ahead. If I’m right, the vanity license plate will read Judge.

  Judge Prescott’s cabin is a small, boxy structure, sitting on cinderblocks, probably built in the thirties. I work my way over to a window and peek inside, squeezing my eyes to get a better look, but it’s too dark to notice any movement.

  I walk around to the front door and place my ear against it, but there’s no sign of life. Crouching down in position, I hope the door isn’t locked. I turn the knob, and the door opens easily. I’m greeted by a dank smell. At least it wasn’t a gun.

  I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, then call out, “Wayne. Paddy. It’s Hank.”

  When no one answers, I enter the living room, which is decorated with rattan furniture. It doesn’t look as though it’s been disturbed, but the kitchen tells me another story. I find a few bags of groceries sitting on the counter. I’m about to check the refrigerator when I hear a muffled sound coming from one of the rooms. It’s more like a groan. I follow it, pushing a door open with my gun barrel. That’s where I find the judge lying on a bed, staring over at me, duct tape slapped against his mouth, his hands bound from behind.

  I place my gun back in the holster and rip the tape off, maybe a little too quickly. Judge Prescott is not on my best friend list right now.

  He lets out a burst of air. “Thank God!”

  “Where are they?” I demand.

  The judge rolls over on his stomach and makes a feeble attempt to remove the tape around his wrists. Frustrated, he turns his head toward me. “Wayne did this to me. Your deputy.”

  “I know who Wayne is. Where did they go?”

  The judge must be waiting for me to undo the tape, but I resist. “Goddammit, Hank, they probably took off for the beach. Now will you remove this thing? It’s killing my circulation.”

  Before I have an opportunity to free him, the judge starts ranting about how Wayne kept brandishing his weapon and threatening him for harboring a fugitive. “He can’t threaten me, Hank!”

  “Sounds like he already did, Judge.”

  The judge scowls. “I’m going to make a formal complaint.”

  I free his hands. “Great. Does that mean you’re not going to vote for Wayne in the next election?”

  “I don’t think it’s very funny,” he says, sitting up and shaking his hands back to life. He doesn’t look up at me.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Judge?”

  “I—”

  “Forget it,” I say, brushing him off, “I already know. Did Paddy have a gun with him?”

  He meets my eyes. “Yes, for protection.”

  “Well he’s certainly going to need it.”

  The judge’s expression turns grave, and he scrambles to another bedroom, me charging after him. He opens a chest drawer and swears to himself. “Paddy didn’t have time.”

  I glance inside. “Which one is his, Judge?”

  He rakes his hair. “The thirty-eight. The other belongs to me. Paddy ran out as soon as he heard a car engine.”

  I remove a handkerchief from my jacket pocket, two-finger the judge’s revolver, and study it. “Sheryl might have been killed with this caliber,” I tell him.

  “Well, I certainly didn’t kill her,” he says.

  I shove the gun in my jacket pocket. “I’m not accusing you. Yet. Any objections if I hold onto it?”

  “As you wish,” he says. “Just stop Wayne before he does something we’ll all regret.”

  I inform the judge that Wayne is the police officer, not Paddy, and if anyone needs a weapon, it’s Wayne. I tell him that, knowing damned well that it’s Wayne who is out of control. But I’m not about to side with the enemy just yet.

  “What are you waiting for, Hank? Hurry!”

  I glare. “If you had listened to me yesterday—”

  “That’s why I drove out here this morning. To try and convince Paddy to give himself up.”

  I jab at his chest. “Then how do you explain a week’s worth of groceries in the kitchen? What is this, some kind of welcome wagon?”

  The judge has a defeated look on his face. “I didn’t know what Paddy would say.”

  “No, but you made it easy for him.”

  “Hank, please. Let’s not argue over this now.”

  I nod. “Fair enough. Did Wayne see Paddy duck out of here?”

  “No, but your crazy deputy forced me to admit that he was here. Then he taped me up and bolted for the door.”

  I ask the judge why the beach, already knowing the answer.

  “My…boat.”

  I regard his remark. “That’s how Paddy got here, isn’t it?”

  He nods sheepishly.

  I shake my head. “Not good, Judge.”

  Judge Prescott, aging rapidly from these past few stressful weeks, says he doesn’t care what happens to him. Just help Paddy.

  I point to the door. “I want you to get into your car and drive the hell out of here. And before you ram into my police car, have Jackie Hopkins back it up so you can get out. I don’t want to have to put through a claim to the insurance company.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell Jackie to block the road again.”

  “I will.”

  “And tell her I’ll need another half-hour. She’ll understand.”

  He nods.

  “Now leave and forget you were here today.”

  “Thanks, Hank. I owe you.”

  “You already paid me by being a good friend to my father.”

  He offers a thin smile, takes a quick look around, then scurries out the door to his car.

  I take off in the opposite direction. The wind has picked up speed, and the clouds are getting bigger and more ominous. This is not going to be fun.

  I meet the bluffs and glance out at the expanse of Long Island Sound, my eyes searching eastward. Other than a few seagulls foraging for food, the beach is empty.

  My vision shifts west and follows the water’s edge until it bends in toward the main road. I’m guessing that’s where the judge’s boat is tied up.

  I charge down the bluffs, not paying attention to the large “Please Keep off the Bluffs” sign. I don’t feel environmentally sensitive right now. The bend is about a hundred feet away, but it feels like miles. My heart is pounding in my chest. I should have joined a health club years ago.

  The waves are smacking against the rocks near shore, and I’m wondering if Paddy is going to make a run for it by boat. That thought pushes me harder, but the wet sand is slowing me down. Just before the bend, I hear a deafening explosion. Then another.

  I pick up speed and reach the bend in time to see my one-armed deputy standing behind a rock wide enough to cover his girth. I’m assuming he’s been taking target practice at Paddy, who must be holed up in one of the boats tied up to the dock. The judge’s boat is next to a few smaller crafts and a houseboat. Although the weather is deteriorating, I can see the top of Paddy’s head; he’s on the houseboat.

  Before my deputy fires another round, I call out. “Wayne, behind you.”

  The echo confuses him, because his head jerks
about, but he doesn’t turn in my direction.

  “Behind you,” I call out again.

  He shifts from his position and sees me waving at him. “I can handle it alone, Hank,” he yells at the top of his lungs, pointing to the dock.

  I take a tentative step toward him. “I’m coming anyway.”

  He motions with his gun in protest. “Don’t, Hank. Paddy’s got a gun.”

  I’m not about to tell Wayne that Paddy is unarmed. Instead, I call out, “Paddy, stay where you are.”

  “Don’t do that!” Wayne roars. “Go to the car and call for backup.”

  I pull out my cell phone. “I already did,” I lie.

  “Why did you do that?” he screams. “I can handle it alone. Go back and wait for them.”

  I take another step toward Wayne. “I can’t do that, Wayne. I have to arrest you for murder.”

  “C’mon, Hank. This is serious.”

  “For the murder of John Hunter,” I continue, my voice lingering in the air.

  “This is not a good time for jokes,” he says, keeping one eye on the boat.

  “I’m not joking, Wayne,” I say, advancing through the sand.

  “Stay, dammit!” he demands, wheeling his gun in my direction.

  I place my hands in the air. “Slow down, Wayne. Let’s talk this through.” In the corner of my eye, I see Paddy crawling out of the boathouse and inching his way toward us. I have two killers in my range, and one is pointing his revolver at me. I try to keep Wayne distracted.

  “It’s over, Wayne,” I say, lowering my hands slowly. “And you can forget about the election.”

  His eyes search the sand for answers. “You told me Paddy’s prints were on the inside of the label.”

  With effort, I drag my boots through the sand, closing in on Wayne. “I never thought your fingerprints were on Susan’s letter to Hunter. I assumed they belonged to Paddy.”

  He shakes his head and says almost to himself, “Can’t be.”

  “It’s true. The lab matched the prints on one of Susan’s letters with those inside the Jack Daniel’s label. At some point, you must have touched the letter without your handkerchief. You screwed up, Wayne.”

  After my deputy processes his mistake, he brings his gaze back to me. “Hank, don’t come any closer.”

  My gun is at my side, but I’m afraid to move it. “Sorry, Wayne. I gotta arrest you.”

  “Forget about Hunter,” he begs. “It’s Paddy we want. He killed Sheryl. He killed his own wife, for Chrissake!”

  Wayne isn’t about to give up on Paddy, so I calmly tell him that I might have found the murder weapon that was used to kill Sheryl inside the judge’s cabin. “If it is, Paddy’s history,” I say encouragingly, taking two steps forward.

  Wayne backpedals. “Hank, don’t make me use this.”

  His gun is pointed at my head. “How about we discuss it back at the stationhouse? Just you and me.”

  He shakes his head defiantly. “Can’t do, Hank. Not until Paddy pays for killing Sheryl.”

  “That’s not how we operate, Wayne. You know that.”

  Wayne wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “It’s too late for jail.”

  “Maybe you had a reason for killing Hunter,” I offer, softening.

  He glares. “He had it coming!” Wayne storms. “He humiliated me and took her away…”

  I glance out at the sound, then back to Wayne. “But Sheryl was never yours. She was married to Paddy. If you give me your gun now, we’ll talk to the DA, maybe make a deal.”

  He snorts. “I’m not an idiot, Hank!”

  “I didn’t say that…” I place my hands in the air slowly, my gun dangling from my thumb.

  “Shut the fuck up and get out of here, or you’ll be next!” He sneers.

  I know Wayne’s limit and don’t want to die a hero. I drop my revolver in the sand and inch toward Wayne. “Can we at least talk this over?”

  He fires a round over my head.

  I freeze, feel my heart pumping against the judge’s revolver.

  “You know I’m a good shot, Hank. Don’t test me.”

  I’m taking a calculated risk, but Paddy realizes what I’m up to and has been using the time to crawl off the dock and is within twenty feet of Wayne.

  “Paddy isn’t worth it, Wayne. Don’t end it this way.”

  He shakes his head sadly. “Don’t you see, Hank? I need to do this for Sheryl. It’s her justice.”

  My arm motions toward the bluffs. “Don’t let Paddy get away!”

  As Wayne jerks his good arm and aims, I charge for him, kicking up sand in every direction. When he realizes I’m faking, he snaps back at me in bewilderment. He’s gotta think I’m crazy, which I must be.

  My eyes stay on Wayne as he takes aim, but then Paddy’s voice echoes in the air, and Wayne turns quickly to see Paddy charging him as well. It’s not hard to figure whose body Wayne’s .38 is going for, and within seconds, he gets off two rounds. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, watching Wayne follow Paddy’s fall. Then he dashes past his victim toward freedom.

  I run over to Paddy, his hand stretching out to me. “I swear, Hank, I didn’t kill her.”

  Some people lie to the end. “Hang in there, Paddy. I’ll call for help.” Then I leave him lying in red sand and scurry after Wayne, punching 911 into my phone. When connected, I identify myself and ask for an ambulance.

  My legs cut through the wet sand, but I can’t keep up with my deputy’s pace. I desperately call out to him before he disappears.

  By the time I reach the top of the bluffs, Wayne is within twenty yards of his car. He slips on a cluster of pine needles, picks himself up, and continues. That’s when he notices my car blocking the road, and he stops in his tracks.

  He turns back to see where I am, makes a quick decision, and races toward my patrol car. That’s when I realize Jackie’s in the car! But then Jackie emerges from the passenger side. My one-armed deputy’s gun is still clutched in his good hand, so I scream out to Jackie to run, but it’s too late. One shot rings out, then another, then one more.

  Twenty

  I approach the crime scene out of breath. Jackie is standing over Wayne, gun in hand, extended from her limp arm. She doesn’t move; she looks mesmerized. I gently remove the gun from her hand, then kneel beside my deputy, whose vacant eyes are staring into space. I hold my friend, comfort him as best I can. But I know Wayne is gone. He painstakingly attempts to form a word. I make out “sorry.” At least, that’s the word I’ll keep with me. Then Wayne closes his eyes and goes to sleep. I say a short prayer for his soul and ask myself, how did it get this crazy?

  I glance up at Jackie, who is oblivious to the distant, now familiar frenzied sound of sirens crackling the air. At this point, my only concern is Paddy.

  I help Jackie inside my car, but she’s still in shock. I try comforting her, but there is no response. When the paramedics arrive, I point to the beach and inform them that a white male is down with at least one gunshot wound. Then I tell them my deputy shot him and that I believe he’s dead. That’s enough information for now.

  One medic, a young athletic type, grabs the stretcher and lifesaving gear and dashes off to the beach. His partner, short and wiry, examines Wayne, checking for vital signs, but his grim expression confirms my assessment. He glances over and shakes his head. “Sorry.” Then he stands and follows his partner.

  I keep my eyes on Wayne for a long moment. There’s nothing I can do for him, and I wonder why I hadn’t seen it coming.

  The commotion from the responders doesn’t seem to disturb Jackie, who is leaning against the headrest, eyes shut. When the paramedics are in sight, I run to meet them, but their grim faces tell me the bartender, ex-cop, is in bad shape.

  I watch the paramedics transfer Paddy to a gurney inside the ambulance. Because this once-tranquil place is now a crime scene, Wayne’s body remains on the ground and will wait for the investigators to arrive. I watch the ambulance fade into the trees, taki
ng with it the clamor of death, then close my eyes and breathe in the fresh scent of pine. With the exception of Jackie, who is now weeping softly inside the car, the area is still.

  I sit beside Jackie, place my arm around her shoulders, and draw her close to me. She shoves her head against my chest and sobs. I let her cry, stroke her hair.

  “It just happened, Hank. Wayne had a gun.” She stops, meets my eyes. “He had that look in his eyes. I’ve seen it before,” she says, her body trembling. “I didn’t know if he was going to shoot me.”

  I nod. “You found the gun in my glove compartment?”

  “I was scared to be alone. I wasn’t going to use it…”

  “I know,” I say sympathetically.

  Jackie wipes her eyes and tells me it was Wayne who killed John Hunter. “He knew Hunter drank bourbon at home and made me bring a new bottle that night.” Jackie stops, waits for my reaction. I motion for her to continue.

  “Wayne promised it would only make him sick,” she says, her voice trembling. “After seeing Susan’s painting that night, I wanted to leave, but John persuaded me to have a drink with him.” She pauses. “I couldn’t, of course. So John drank alone, smiling, telling me he still cared about me, that there really wasn’t anyone else. I was so tempted to grab the drink out of his hands.” She pauses once more. “But then it happened. Oh, God, Hank, it was terrible.”

  “The convulsions?”

  “I never saw anything like it before. John was fighting for his life, and all I could do was break his fall. When it was over I dragged him back over to the sofa. Oh, John, I’m so sorry,” Jackie laments, meeting my eyes. “I did everything I could to help him, Hank. I swear.”

  “I believe you,” I say, taking it in. “It was you who made the call?”

  She nods. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You did the right thing,” I say, softening the pain. Then I tell Jackie that everything will be okay. But I know that it won’t.

  I hold off a few moments before asking more about Wayne. Her eyes harden. “I panicked afterward and called him, but he wasn’t concerned. He said it would look like Paddy did it. He said he planned everything and waited for the right time.”