Larry slumped in his chair. “You’re right. I’m screwed.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jacob entered the bar and slid into the booth across from Ray. “Sorry I’m late. I’ve got this demanding new client and he—”
“Save the excuses for that pretty wife of yours.” Ray swallowed the last sip of his beer and belched. “Drinks are on you tonight, little brother.”
Jacob set his briefcase down on the bench and adjusted his glasses. “Looks like you’ve gotten a head start.”
Ray gestured to the TV above the bar. “Blame it on the Sox.”
“What’s the score?”
“Sox are ahead by one, but the pitching looks shaky.”
Jacob flagged down a barmaid and ordered a beer.
It was a warm spring night and Quinn’s was teeming with college kids, Townies, and tourists fresh off the Freedom Trail, all crowded around the bar and mixing it up, their voices rising into the rafters in a raucous roar of conversation. The windows at the front of the bar were open to the night, inviting in the first whispers of summer and the salty scent of the harbor.
Ray stared across the table and had a flashback of his brother as a scrawny kid with a serious face, full of determination and eager to conquer the world. And here he sat looking so professional in his tailored suit and designer glasses, finally away from the office but still carrying it in his posture, and Ray couldn’t help but wonder if, instead, it was the world that had conquered his brother.
Jacob sipped from a freshly delivered pint and looked at Ray. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Cause I’m worried about you.”
“I thought you didn’t worry about anything.”
“You’ve been working too much.”
“I’m building a business, Ray. I’ve got to work hard now so I can reap the benefits later.”
“You gotta learn to relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“Then why are you sitting like you’ve got a rod crammed up your ass?”
Jacob stared at Ray over his pint. “That’s just how I sit.”
“Because you’ve become accustomed to the rod.”
“How many beers have you had?”
Ray thrust a finger at him. “You know I hate to be serious, but Dad’s dead and Ma thinks hard work is the answer to everything. So I gotta be the voice of reason.”
“That’s a scary thought.”
“Maybe so, but I’m telling you, when you and Megan have kids, you’ll need to dial it back. No one goes to their grave wishing they’d worked more.”
“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, especially coming from a guy who gets called away in the middle of the night to investigate murders.”
“I still work less than you do.”
“That reminds me,” Jacob said. “I never heard from your police buddy about Barry Finkleton.”
“That’s because I’m handling the case now. I was gonna ask you a few questions tonight.”
“You mean before you got sidetracked by lectures and insults?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, what happened with Barry?”
Ray set down his beer and wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand. “Finkleton’s wife said he never came home Wednesday night, but the security camera shows him leaving the gallery just after seven. He’s got a parking spot in the service alley behind the building. Drives a nice, new Mercedes. No cameras back there, but the car was gone so we’re assuming he got in it.”
“What about the rest of the security footage?” Jacob asked. “Anyone suspicious coming or going during the day?”
“Nothing that raises any eyebrows. Detective Ridley interviewed the gallery staff, but none of them reported anything out of the ordinary. Neither did anyone else we met with.”
“Who’d you talk to?”
“Ridley met with Finkleton’s wife and some of the artists whose work he exhibits. And this afternoon, Billy and I spoke with residents from the brownstones neighboring the gallery.”
Jacob frowned into his beer. “Maybe he skipped town without telling anyone.”
“I don’t think so,” Ray said.
“Why not?”
“Because we recovered his car this afternoon. A patrolman found it in Roxbury up on blocks and stripped of anything valuable. Our crime scene techs said there were over a dozen sets of fingerprints inside the car. Basically, we’ve got a contaminated crime scene.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I think someone carjacked him in the alley, except that Finkleton was the target instead of the car. There’s been no demand for ransom, so I’ve got a hunch someone had a grudge against him. Probably drove him to a remote location, shot him dead, then ditched the car in the city to throw off the trail.”
Jacob winced. “I hope you’re wrong about that.”
“Ridley got the sense that people didn’t want to say anything bad about Finkleton, even though it seemed something might be lurking below the surface. You got any idea what that might be?”
Jacob adjusted his glasses. “He’s not what I’d call a likable guy. He’s opinionated, egotistical, and pretentious. I’m sure a lot of people dislike him, but I doubt someone would want to kill him.”
Ray leaned his elbows on the table. “You’d be surprised what passes for motive these days. Was he in debt?”
“No, he’s got a strong balance sheet. The gallery has a pretty good business model. New artists hungry for recognition will do anything to get their work displayed, so a lot of them agree to give Finkleton an enormous percentage of the sales. I’m talking they’re left with pennies on the dollar. But a lot of times it pays off. Finkleton’s clients are wealthy art collectors, and those people like nothing more than to discover the next great artist. It’s bragging rights for the uber-rich.”
“What happens when an exhibit’s over? Do the artists owe anything else to Finkleton?”
“They could walk away if they wanted, but if their art generated enough interest, they could stay with Finkleton and negotiate a better margin on future sales.”
“How about his employees? They like him?”
“They tolerate him. I see a bit of eye rolling, but they’re a nice group of people. Most of them are grandmotherly types. I couldn’t see them causing any harm.”
“What about the artists he refuses to exhibit? Could be a big dream crusher for those guys.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen artists walk in off the street carrying their portfolios with more care than a mom with a newborn. Sometimes, Finkleton seems impressed and tells them to come back with more samples, but most times he just scoffs at their work and points to the door.”
“I’m guessing Finkleton doesn’t keep records of the artists he turns down.”
“I doubt it.”
“What about the ones he invites back? He must set up an appointment, right?”
“You should check with Veronica, the gallery manager.”
Ray drained the last of his beer and nodded, his gaze shifting to the TV as the Fenway Faithful uttered a collective groan. Another blown save.
“You really think he’s dead?” Jacob asked, liquid-brown eyes filled with concern.
“I don’t know,” Ray said. “A case like this? I’d say the odds are a thousand to one that anybody ever sees Finkleton again.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A crowd of mourners gathered at the base of the hill, huddled near a tranquil pond teeming with vibrant clusters of water lilies. A priest stood beside a shiny black casket, his hands clasped in prayer.
“To you, O Lord, we commend the soul of James Sorrento, your servant. In the sight of this world he is dead, but in your sight may he live forever. Forgive whatever sins he committed through human weakness, and in your goodness grant him everlasting peace. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Jimmy’s wife wailed at the sight of the casket descending into the ground, her face contorting beneath the shadow
of her veil. Her stiletto heels had sunk halfway into the grass—as if in solidarity with Jimmy—and the crucifix wedged into her cleavage heliographed the sun with every hitch of her chest.
The priest prayed on, a pillar of strength in a sea of despair. “May his soul and the souls of all the faithfully departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. And may almighty God bless you, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
Ray and Billy leaned against a Mercedes limo and watched the mourners disperse. Sal Giabatti headed their way, the white-haired patriarch of the Salerno crime family looking as dapper as ever in a designer suit and retro glasses. Giabatti didn’t stop until he stood toe-to-toe with Ray, and for a moment, Ray wasn’t sure if Giabatti was going to shake his hand or punch him in the face.
“Sorry to hear about Jimmy,” Ray said. “You have our condolences.”
Giabatti nodded, his lips pressed into a tight purple line.
“I know this is a difficult time,” Ray said, “but Jimmy and Mikey didn’t die of natural causes. You can’t just retrieve their bodies and bury them without an investigation.”
“I think it’s a little late for that,” Sal said.
Billy leaned in to say something but Ray waved him off. “We’re not here to harass you, or to arrest you for obstructing justice. What we want is evidence to take down Flaherty.”
“You know it doesn’t work like that,” Giabatti said. “We’ll lick our wounds, bury our dead, and live to fight another day. This isn’t a police matter; it’s a family matter. And I’m asking you to respect that.”
“You know I can’t make that promise,” Ray said.
Giabatti fixed them with an icy stare before opening the door to the Mercedes. He patted Ray on the shoulder. “You boys watch your backs. I’ve got a feeling this is gonna be one hell of a bloody summer.”
***
“Well, that was a waste,” Billy said. “I told you we should’ve done it my way.”
“Your way would’ve ended in a shoot-out.”
“At least we would’ve gotten some swift justice.”
Ray shook his head. “You’re starting to sound like Spinonni. Tell you what, next time you want to shoot up a funeral, I won’t hold you back.”
“I appreciate that.”
They drove across town to Coleman’s house and parked the Explorer where they had a view into the living room. After shooing away a news van, they took turns with the binoculars and spotted Coleman sitting on the couch wearing a pit-stained V-neck T-shirt with the remnants of his last meal smeared across his stomach.
“Christ,” Ray said, observing the knots in Coleman’s hair. “He looks even worse than yesterday.”
They waited for Coleman to spot the Explorer, then gave it another hour before driving around the corner to Stony Brook Reservation. Billy climbed out of the truck and circled back to Coleman’s house on foot to see if their departure had triggered any change in his behavior.
A few minutes later, Billy called to report that Coleman had put on jeans and a fresh T-shirt and was tidying up the living room. Not long after that, a silver Corolla pulled into the driveway and an attractive older woman got out carrying a casserole dish. Billy radioed the tag number to Ray, who ran it through the system and determined the car belonged to Coleman’s mother. So much for their big break.
When Billy returned to the Explorer, Ray was leaning against the bumper staring through a screen of pine at the rippling waters of Turtle Pond.
“Either Coleman’s innocent,” Billy said, “or he’s got no loose ends to take care of.”
The midday sun accentuated the creases at the corner of Billy’s eyes, and for a moment he really did look old. “What’s the matter, Billy? You giving up on me? You know you’ve still got ten years until retirement?”
“Nine and a half,” Billy said. “And, yes, I’m counting.”
“I called RJ. He should be here any minute.”
Billy nodded and they watched the road until a black Nissan sports coupe rolled up behind the Explorer.
RJ climbed out of the car and tipped them a nod. He had sandy-blond hair cropped close to his skull and wore a goatee long enough to braid. He looked lanky in his baggy Celtics shorts and oversized tank top that showed off the barbwire tattoos spiraling up his arms.
RJ grew up in one of Dorchester’s roughest neighborhoods and was no stranger to Boston’s underworld. A few years earlier, he had double-crossed a bookmaker with ties to Giabatti and came away with fifty grand and a price on his head. When Ray and Billy questioned the bookmaker as part of an ongoing investigation, RJ followed them to the precinct and asked for help getting the bounty lifted.
Armed with RJ’s inside information, they succeeded in shutting down an entire branch of Giabatti’s bookmaking operation, as well as uncovering evidence that the men had been hiding profits from Giabatti for years. Once Ray leaked that bit of information to Giabatti, the men lost their connections and the bounty got canceled.
Ever since then, RJ had become their most reliable informant, supplementing his income from building custom cars with the stipend he earned from the department. Over the course of a year, it amounted to a lot more than chump change, but being a rat in a place like Dorchester was a dangerous game.
Ray lifted a hand in greeting. “How you doing, RJ?”
“Surviving, man. Surviving.”
“Sweet new ride like that?” Billy said. “Looks like you’re doing better than just surviving.”
RJ grinned. “This car’s got so much power it’s sick. And the best part is, you guys are making the payments.”
“You’d better not be drag racing again,” Ray said. “You get caught one more time, I don’t think we can fix it.”
“Relax, I got it under control.”
“Yeah,” Billy said, “I’m sure.”
“By the way,” Ray said, “we saw your recent handiwork at the precinct.”
“What’d you think?”
“It was poetic,” Ray said. “But I don’t think Spinonni cared for it.”
“How is that cranky old bastard?”
“One more weekly diss,” Billy said, “and he’ll blow a gasket.”
RJ chuckled. “My art touches people in so many ways.”
Ray lifted an eyebrow at the mention of art. It was like learning a new word—suddenly you started hearing it everywhere. Aside from RJ’s reference, there was Finkleton’s gallery, Suzie Coleman’s paintings, and the plaster of Paris that Tina said could be used to make sculptures. It was probably just a coincidence, but Ray filed it away for further examination. “We want to talk about Danny the Mule,” he said. “You ever hear rumors of him molesting kids?”
The smirk disappeared from RJ’s face, and for a moment he looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “Danny the Mule. Now, that’s a blast from the past.”
“He’s dead,” Billy said. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
RJ nodded. “I heard about it.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Ray said. “Did Danny ever molest any kids?”
RJ nodded. “I think so, yeah.”
“You think?” Billy asked. “Or you know?”
“Let’s just say I saw something a long time ago.”
“How long ago?” Ray asked.
“I was twelve,” RJ said. “I’m twenty-eight now, so you do the math.”
“What did you see?” Ray asked. “I need you to be very specific.”
“It happened at The Rock.”
“Flaherty’s bar?” Billy asked. “You went there when you were twelve?”
“My dad sometimes took me there when it was our weekend together. He used to do odd jobs for Flaherty. Messenger work, mostly. Picking up and dropping off packages. Shit like that. He liked hanging out with those guys. I think it made him feel important, like he was a tough guy, you know? Anyway, there was this stripper who used to entertain the guys. She’d walk around the bar with her tits hanging out, smoking a cigarette and wearin
g nothing but spandex and lace. She had her son with her, this skinny kid who looked to be around ten. He was kind of nerdy. You know, the shy, awkward type with nothing much to say.
“Anyway, he seemed okay when his mom was strutting around, chatting up the guys. But once a guy laid down a stack of bills and she got down to business, he would disappear into the back room. I wandered back there one time when a fight broke out up front, and I saw Danny coming out of the storeroom hitching up his pants and whistling. He winked at me as he walked past, and when I peered into the storeroom, I saw the kid standing beside a pile of boxes pulling up his pants and bawling. I didn’t see him again for the rest of the afternoon. I think he holed up in the storeroom while Danny got drunk and groped his mom.”
“Christ,” Ray said. “Did Danny ever bother you?”
“If he ever tried to touch me, I would’ve ripped his dick off. And I think a guy like that knows it, you know? That’s why they prey on the shy, quiet type.”
“You remember the kid’s name?” Billy asked.
RJ shook his head. “I only saw him a few times and we hardly spoke. The only conversation I remember having with him was about Danny.”
“What’d he say?” Ray asked.
“He said if Danny ever offered me an elephant ride, I should say no.”
“What the hell’s an elephant ride?” Billy asked.
“The kid said it was like a horsey ride, except Danny called it an elephant ride. It’s probably how Danny first got the kid alone. You know, parading him around on his back in front of everyone all innocent-like, then disappearing into the storeroom.”
Billy shook his head. “Sick sonofabitch.”
“Do you remember what the kid looked like?” Ray asked.
“Light brown hair, kind of skinny. I don’t remember much else.”
“What about the mom?” Billy asked.
“She had long black hair and a perfect set of tits. Her name was Amber. I remember that. My dad said she danced at the Puma.”
“I’m sure she made a lasting impression,” Ray said. “I don’t suppose you caught her last name?”
The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller Page 7
