The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller

by Derik Cavignano

As the third-rate stripper spanked a dimpled ass cheek and favored them with a seductive wink, Billy flipped her a single and grinned at Ray. Under normal circumstances, it would’ve been damn near impossible to convince Billy to get an early start, but breakfast at a strip club was right up his alley.

  After RJ’s tip last week, Ray had reached deep into the department’s files on Flaherty’s known associates, and although certain documents from a dozen years ago made a few passing references to a stripper named Amber, they neglected to include her last name. Probably because she wasn’t considered important enough to warrant further attention.

  Trooper Garrison and Agent Calhoun reported similar findings with the State Police and FBI files, but Ray hoped more information would come to light after this weekend’s raid of the Puma. According to Calhoun, the FBI seized a trove of electronic and paper records during their search of the premises. Calhoun promised to have one of his agents sift through the older documents for any references to Amber. It was the least he could do since Ray had handed the bureau such a buttoned-up case.

  Despite Calhoun’s promise, Ray knew the request would take a backseat to the trafficking case, so in the meantime, he figured he’d try his luck with some of Amber’s former coworkers.

  When the emcee announced the stripper’s last dance, urging everyone to reach into his wallet and give it up for Natasha, Ray caught her eye and held up a five. And as Warrant’s “Cherry Pie”—that timeless strip club classic—thumped through the speakers, she strutted across the stage, collecting singles as she went.

  “Hey, sugar,” she said, kneeling down to collect his five. There was no question she was pretty once—or even still—but smoking, drinking, or drugs had aged her face, and not even stripper’s makeup could hide the creases around her eyes.

  She arched her back and thrust a pair of silicone-enhanced breasts toward his face. “You like that, sugar?”

  “I don’t know about my friend,” Billy interjected, “but I like it.”

  Ray lifted an eyebrow. “Then stop being such a cheap bastard and throw her a five.”

  Billy shot him a dirty look, but quickly folded a five over the six-inch glass partition that bordered the stage. An old pro, Natasha leaned over the glass and snatched the bill between her breasts.

  “Bravo,” Billy said, bringing his hands together in a clap.

  Natasha plucked the bill from between her breasts and tossed it into the crinkled pile of cash behind her.

  “You been dancing here long?” Ray asked.

  She touched a finger to the tip of his nose and giggled. “About half your life, sugar.”

  “Do you know a—”

  The emcee’s voice boomed over the speakers as “Cherry Pie” faded into Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.”

  “Alright, alright, put your hands together and welcome Rosita to the main stage.”

  Natasha smiled. “Gotta go, boys.” Then she blew Ray a kiss and pointed to a secluded corner in the back. “Meet me over there if you’d like a private dance.”

  ***

  Natasha emerged from the dressing room looking like an aging Jessica Rabbit in a hot-pink minidress with matching stilettos. She guided Ray onto a vinyl banquet chair and began her routine, wasting no time as she teased down the neckline until her breasts spilled free. As she shimmied her hips, the dress sank lower until it dropped to the floor in a puddle of neon, leaving her wearing nothing but a lacy pink thong and a gold body necklace.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and danced so close that the exotic scent of her perfume washed over him like stripper potpourri. From the corner of his eye, he could make out the club’s bouncer observing them from a distance, making sure Ray kept his hands at his sides.

  He spoke to Natasha in a low voice. “I need to ask you some questions.”

  Natasha smiled and continued swaying her hips, as if she’d already heard every question a man could think to ask. “Alright, sugar. What is it?”

  He noticed for the first time how striking her eyes were. Emerald green and luminescent, they erased years from her face, and it was easy to imagine her as a beautiful young girl dreaming of a better future, instead of a middle-aged woman wishing for a better past.

  He felt a pang of sadness for her, but quickly shrugged it off. “I’m looking for a stripper who danced here ten or twelve years ago, went by the name Amber.”

  “Sugar, I’ve danced with a dozen Ambers in my time. You’ll need to be a little more specific.”

  “She was here eleven years ago for sure, but probably not long after that. She would’ve been about fifty at the time, had long dark hair. Used to make side money by entertaining Flaherty’s crew at The Rock.”

  Natasha recoiled at the mention of Flaherty. “Are you a cop?”

  Ray drew a finger to his lips. “How about we keep that to ourselves? She’s not in any trouble, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just need to ask her some questions.”

  Natasha glanced in the bouncer’s direction. “I don’t know…”

  “How about a fifty-dollar tip to help your memory?”

  “Make it a hundred, sugar, and you’ve got a deal.”

  “What do you say we split the difference? But you’ve got to keep dancing so we don’t attract attention.”

  She winked at him before turning around and bending over, the pink line of her thong dividing her ass cheeks.

  “What’s her name?” Ray asked.

  “Angie.”

  “She have a last name?”

  “It was hard to pronounce. Began with a T and sounded Italian. Around here, she was just Angie T.”

  “She ever marry?”

  “That skanky bitch could never keep a man long enough.” Natasha straddled him, her right breast brushing against his cheek.

  “Where’s she live?”

  “She don’t live anywhere, sugar.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “From what?”

  “Accident, overdose. I don’t remember.”

  “Where’d she live when she was working here?”

  “Eastie.”

  “And after that?”

  Natasha shrugged. “I don’t know. We weren’t exactly close.”

  “You ever meet her son?”

  Natasha chuckled. “I get it, this is about her kid.”

  “I didn’t say that. You remember his name?”

  “I can barely remember what he looked like, let alone his name. He was skinny. And awkward. She sometimes brought him backstage when she couldn’t find a sitter. But that had to be about fifteen years ago.”

  “What about the father? She ever say who he was?”

  “Sugar, I’d be surprised if she even knew who—”

  She broke off, and Ray didn’t need to follow her gaze to know that someone had crept up behind him. He hopped off the chair and whirled around, coming face-to-face with Jack Flaherty, whose glacier blue eyes were brimming with rage.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Flaherty barked.

  “Just enjoying the company,” Ray said, and winked at Natasha.

  “Spare me the bullshit, detective.”

  Natasha fumbled on the floor for her dress.

  Flaherty looked her up and down. “You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart. Not until we get this sorted out.”

  Ray looked toward the main stage, where Billy was chatting up a busty blond stripper wearing nothing but pigtails and the bottom half of a Catholic school uniform. He rolled his eyes. So much for his lookout.

  “I’m getting tired of bumping into you around town,” Flaherty said. “Why are you harassing my girls? Isn’t Danvers out of your jurisdiction?”

  “Your girls?” Ray said. “This place just got raided by the feds and you’re too dumb to distance yourself?”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide, detective. You know damn well that I’m an investor in this place. And if you had any sense, you would be too. It’s what the Wall Street
types call a cash cow with an inelastic demand. A fucking goldmine, in other words.”

  “Yeah,” Ray said. “A cash business is perfect for someone like you. Wouldn’t want to leave a paper trail, would you?”

  Flaherty shook his head. “What kind of moron doesn’t like cash? And what am I supposed to do when the chump who runs this place makes a bad decision and gets busted by the feds? I’ve got to protect my investment. And the last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime.”

  By now, both Billy and the bouncer had caught wind of what was going down and stood on either side of them, eyeing each other nervously.

  “You may think that you own this town,” Ray said, “but you’re nothing but a thug from the projects. And you may masquerade as the Robin Hood of Southie, but we both know that you’re nothing but a sociopath who preys on the weak and the stupid.”

  Flaherty’s face flushed crimson. “You’d better watch yourself.”

  “Or what, Flaherty? You want to make a specific threat? Go ahead, I’ll haul your ass to the station just to ruin your day.”

  Flaherty thrust a finger at Ray. He was literally shaking with rage and Ray figured it would only take one more jab before Flaherty went mental. He’d heard stories of Flaherty delivering savage beatings to men twice his size and half his age. He was an experienced streetfighter who, even at fifty-one, was as lean and muscular as an Army drill sergeant.

  “You listen to me, detective. I’m running this place while Sammy’s in jail and you’ve got no right to barge in here and harass me without a warrant. So you can take that shiny gold badge of yours and shove it straight up your ass.”

  Ray stepped toward Flaherty. It was a tactic he often employed to assert his authority, since it forced the perp to draw back in an unspoken admission of weakness. But Flaherty refused to budge, and so they stood toe-to-toe, their faces less than an inch apart.

  Ray poked a finger into Flaherty’s sternum. “You may think you’re untouchable, that you’re smarter than everyone else, but you best watch your back, Flaherty, because I’m coming for you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  If Satan ever designed a highway, Ray figured it would look a lot like Route 1. With a glut of businesses lining both sides of the road and each parking lot bleeding into the next, it had virtually no onramps and forced motorists to merge directly into the path of enraged New Englanders speeding toward work, home, or Dunkin’ Donuts. And if that wasn’t scary enough, the stretch of road that ran through Saugus subjected drivers to several cheesy architectural landmarks, including a seventy-foot cactus, a life-size herd of fiberglass cows, a replica of the leaning tower of Pisa, and a bright orange Tyrannosaurus Rex, just to name a few.

  As Ray peeled out of the Puma’s parking lot and headed in the direction of the giant cactus, he glanced at Billy. “That went better than I expected.”

  Billy stared at him without blinking, his forehead creasing enough for his caterpillar brows to wriggle together for a brief reunion. He seemed at a loss for words, which for Billy was a rare thing indeed. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? Why would you mess with Flaherty like that?”

  Ray strangled the wheel. “I’m done walking on eggshells around that sonofabitch. He’s like a cancer spreading through this city, bringing death to everything he touches. Did you see how smug he was? Acting like he’s above it all, when we both know he masterminded the whole sex trafficking operation.”

  “Of course he did, Ray, but so what? There are certain lines you don’t cross.”

  “Yeah, like what?”

  “Like making things personal with the head of the Irish mob.”

  Ray could’ve said the same for Billy’s handling of Giabatti’s arrest last year, but he didn’t want to get off topic. “Flaherty’s dodged conviction for twenty-five years. I think it’s time to shake things up.”

  “You did a hell of a lot more than shake things up.”

  “Relax, Billy.”

  “Do you know what you just did? You made yourself a marked man.”

  “Come on, Billy. Not even Flaherty’s crazy enough to target a cop.”

  “I’m telling you, Ray, you pushed him too far.”

  Ray stared at the road and fumed. Maybe Billy was right. But what was he supposed to do? Flaherty insulated himself with so many layers he was damn near untouchable, and the injustice of it all infuriated him. He didn’t need to see the department’s shrink to trace his anger back to the night of his father’s murder on that dingy subway platform. Just knowing the punk was still roaming the streets as a free man filled him with rage.

  It was almost twenty years ago, but Ray didn’t think he’d ever forget a single detail. The punk would be in his mid-forties by now, but Ray felt sure he could pick him out of a lineup. If he closed his eyes, he could still see his greasy dark hair, his angular features, and the circular scar just left of center on his forehead.

  Ever since joining the force, Ray had made a habit of talking to informants whenever he could, searching the criminal databases at the start of every week, looking through mugshots of men fitting the punk’s profile, but without any luck. So, yeah, when Flaherty claimed to be nothing but a concerned investor, it touched a nerve. He thought about saying as much to Billy, but held his tongue. Some things were better left unsaid.

  They rode over the Tobin Bridge, the city skyline looming in the distance like a range of jagged steel peaks. The Mystic River flowed far beneath them, its murky gray waters glistening in the sun as a crane from a nearby loading dock plucked shiny, new cars from the deck of a container ship.

  A short while later, as they approached the precinct, a call came in over the radio with a crackle of static. “We’ve got a report of a dead body at Stony Brook Reservation. Trail marker 226, near Turtle Pond.”

  Ray and Billy exchanged a glance. Stony Brook was just around the corner from Coleman’s house.

  Billy snatched the radio off the dash. “Unit 22. We’re on it.”

  “Copy that, 22. What’s your location?”

  Billy glanced at the cross street. “Washington and Metropolitan. ETA under five.”

  Ray flicked on the sirens and accelerated toward Stony Brook, the Explorer’s tires squealing as he cut the wheel and turned onto Enneking Parkway. A minute later, he steered onto the shoulder and brought the Explorer to a lurching halt opposite Turtle Pond, parking almost exactly where they’d rendezvoused with RJ days earlier.

  “What are the odds?” Billy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ray said, “but I’ve got a feeling Coleman figures into this.” He reached for the radio. “Unit 22 to Control. We’ve arrived on scene. Preparing to approach Turtle Pond on foot. Any other units on site?”

  “Negative, 22.”

  “Copy that,” Ray said. “I need a unit to check on a nearby residence. Suspect is under investigation for the disappearance of his wife. Last name Coleman,” he said, and provided the address.

  “10-4. Sending a unit now.”

  “10-4,” Ray said, and climbed out of the truck.

  After Billy retrieved a roll of police tape from the glove box, they headed toward the trailhead to secure the scene. They could see glimpses of Turtle Pond through gaps in the foliage, bright arcs of sunlight shimmering on the surface. The banks were reedy and choked with underbrush. The only accessible path to the water was a wooden dock that served as a scenic overlook.

  They continued past the pond, traversing the glass-littered shoulder of the parkway, and came upon a steel gate blocking the trailhead. It consisted of two green posts connected by a triangular arm secured with a chrome padlock. Ray and Billy sidestepped the gate and turned onto the path, their eyes sweeping the area for clues. The earth was sodden from a recent rain and their shoes squelched in the virgin mud. Cattails lined the beginning of the path, giving way to scraggily pines as the ground rose toward a wooded ridge.

  Billy gestured toward a section of old-growth forest in the distance. “Looks like we’ve got an audience.” />
  Through the trees, Ray could discern a group of bystanders huddled together on an asphalt walking trail, their necks craned upward as they gawked at something beyond his line of sight.

  Fifty feet farther ahead, the dirt path merged onto a paved trail. Ray stepped onto the asphalt and looked up at what dangled from the branch of an oak. “Christ,” he said. “It’s Finkleton.”

  Billy ran a hand through his rockabilly hair and exhaled sharply. “What the hell kind of freak show is that?”

  Ray flashed his badge at the crowd. “Boston Police. I need everyone back. This is a crime scene.”

  The crowd begrudgingly dispersed and Billy secured the area, unravelling the spool of police tape and weaving it around more than a dozen trees until he’d created a wide perimeter with Finkleton at the center. When he was finished, he called out to the rubberneckers on the other side of the tape. “Nobody leaves. We’ll need statements from all of you. You tell us what you saw, when you saw it, and give us your contact information, and then you can be on your way. Now, which one of you made the 911 call?”

  A crunch of leaves drew Ray’s attention and he turned to see Trooper Garrison striding up the path ahead of a contingent of crime scene techs. “Wait until you get a load of this,” Ray said. “It makes what happened to Danny look normal.”

  Garrison shook his head. “I don’t see how that’s possib—” The words died on his lips as he reached the asphalt, his square jaw dropping open in cartoonish surprise.

  Ray followed Garrison’s gaze to where Finkleton dangled fifteen feet above the trail, turning slowly in the breeze like a slab of meat on a vertical spit. He was suspended by a slender rope connected to a harness that buckled around his torso, keeping him parallel to the ground.

  The killer had amputated Finkleton’s arms and legs, leaving him with raw, fleshy nubs protruding from his shoulders and pelvis. In their place were eight prosthetic spider legs—big, black, and bristly, like those of a tarantula. Beneath the harness, Finkleton was naked. Dark tufts of hair covered his rotund belly, the skin underneath so pale it was almost translucent.

  A sheer white net the size of a beach towel hung near Finkleton’s backside, a cluster of plastic eggs affixed to the center. It was hard to tell from this angle, but the four eggs he counted were either smeared with paint or had something inside them. When he craned his neck for a better look, he noticed the crown of a fifth egg protruding from Finkleton’s butt cheeks.