Ray scanned the gallery, his eyes sweeping past a trio of bronze sculptures and a maze of interior walls covered in artwork. “Is anyone else working here, Ms. Daniels?”
“Just Keiko. She’s in the back preparing for our next exhibit. And, please, call me Veronica.”
“I’m surprised you’re open, given the circumstances.”
“Barry’s wife insisted. She said Barry would’ve wanted it that way.”
“How long have you worked here?”
Veronica tapped a manicured nail against her lips and thought for a moment. “My goodness, could it be fifteen years?”
“And what’s your role?”
“I manage the day-to-day operations, interact with customers, and advertise new exhibits—you know, help bring people in the door.”
Ray glanced around. He didn’t see a single customer. “It seems quiet now.”
“We don’t get a lot of traffic. A few people wander in every now and then, but most just breeze through without buying.”
Ray nodded, his eyes settling on a painting of a sailboat moored beside a rustic boathouse, the weathered siding festooned with colorful buoys. “Thirty-five hundred dollars? No wonder you don’t get a lot of traffic.”
“It’s not a volume business,” Veronica said. “We target high net worth customers with an appreciation for fine art. When a piece strikes a chord with the right customer, you’d be amazed at how much they’ll spend to possess it. And really, the only time this place is crowded is when we launch a new exhibit.”
“How often is that?”
“Four times a year. We invite the area’s largest collectors to a private viewing where they can drink expensive wine and mingle with the artists. On those occasions, this place is jam-packed with wealthy people itching to part with their money.”
“I’m sure the booze helps with that.”
“I’d be lying if I said it didn’t.”
“How often do you interact with the artists?”
“I’m their main point of contact once they’ve signed with the gallery.”
“So what’s that? Daily, weekly?”
“I generally touch base with each of our artists once a week.”
“And do any of them strike you as strange?”
Veronica surprised him by laughing. “They’re all a little strange, detective.”
“I’m sure they are. But have you ever gotten the sense that one of them might hold a grudge against Finkleton?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Are you sure about that, Veronica? Because I heard Finkleton tended to rub people the wrong way. I find it hard to believe someone like that didn’t have enemies. Or at the very least, a dissatisfied customer, a jaded artist, or maybe a jealous business rival.”
Veronica’s back stiffened. “I know everyone Barry dealt with in this business, and I just don’t believe that any of them would kill him.”
“But someone did, Veronica. Someone killed him in a very horrific way. And trust me when I tell you that I’ve seen the smallest of slights drive a disturbed person to murder. So I need you to be very honest with me.”
Veronica exhaled sharply. “This is very difficult,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “Barry was a good man, but he wasn’t an easy person to like. He tended to—as you say—rub people the wrong way.”
“You mind elaborating on that?”
Veronica frowned. “It feels wrong to speak ill of the dead, but if it helps the case, then I suppose Barry could sometimes come across as condescending and dismissive. Also, he was a bit of a know-it-all.”
Ray nodded. He’d heard something very similar from Jacob. “Do you recognize any of the names on this list?” he asked, handing her a slip of paper.
Veronica slid her glasses into position and held the paper at arm’s length. “These are artists we’ve worked with extensively. In fact, Barry helped launch their careers. They’re not suspects, are they?”
“We found the names with Barry at the scene of the crime.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t divulge those details. What can you tell me about the first name on the list?”
“Ryan Masters? He’s been with us for five years. That’s his painting you were admiring, the one with the sailboat. He’s done very well for himself recently.”
“And what type of guy is he?” It was a broad question, but that was by design.
“I’d say he’s friendly, bright, introspective. Maybe a little on the shy side. Young man, about your age. Very clean cut.”
“And what about Nathan Devoux?”
“Nathan’s a sweet old man who looks like Wilfred Brimley from those Quaker Oatmeal commercials. He began painting after retiring from a long career as an engineer.”
“And Dean Saunders?”
“He owns a tattoo parlor in Gloucester, does sculptures on the side. Those bronze pieces over there are his.”
“How old would you say he is?”
Veronica pursed her lips. “Forty, maybe. It’s hard to tell. He always wears sunglasses, even inside. He’s kind of scary looking, has a bushy beard and is covered in tattoos, but he’s actually a sweetheart.”
“Did he and Barry get along?”
Veronica chuckled. “I think Barry was intimidated by Dean. I’ve never seen Barry treat anyone with more kindness or respect, and that includes his wife.”
“And what about Don Martinez?”
“Don is young, ambitious, and very serious about art. He and Barry had a bit of a falling out.”
Ray arched an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Don felt Barry was taking advantage of him. Charging too much commission, to be exact.”
“And was he?”
“Barry charged higher rates than most, but he also had a reputation for discovering new artists and helping them break through. A lot of collectors flock to the Finkleton Gallery for that very reason and Barry felt it justified the premium.”
“And what do you think?”
“From what I understand, Don had a difficult childhood. He had an unhealthy exposure to people who took advantage of others, so it was hard for him to accept that staying with Barry was in his best interest.”
“He’s not under contract anymore?”
“No. One afternoon he showed up with a truck and removed his artwork from the gallery. Barry could have sued him for breach of contract, but he allowed him to drive away.”
“Did you see the truck?”
Veronica nodded. “He double-parked on Newbury Street.”
“Do you remember the make and model?”
“A silver pickup. Maybe a Ford or a Chevy, I’m not sure.”
“How did Barry react when Don started yanking his art off the walls?”
“He told Don that he was making a huge mistake, that if Don walked out the door, there’d be no coming back.”
“And what did Don say?”
“He gave Barry the middle finger and stormed out without another word.”
“Did Barry ever see him again?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Ray chewed his lip. “Did Barry ever work with any female artists?”
“A few, yes. But none on display at the moment.”
“Is there any chance he led a double life, like maybe having a relationship with one of his artists?”
“Are you asking if Barry was gay?”
“Was he?”
“That’s a rather narrow-minded stereotype, don’t you think?”
“I’m just trying to cover every angle.”
“Trust me, Barry was straight. He had a habit of ogling women. He thought he was being inconspicuous, but in reality, he was so obvious it was almost comical.”
“Yeah?” Ray said. “How’s that?” It was meant to sound conversational, but the question was deliberate. Her ability to answer increasingly specific questions told him a lot about whether she was telling the truth. When people lied, they typicall
y provided simple answers and appeared uncomfortable when pressed for more detail.
“One of his techniques was to hold up his phone and pretend to read, except that his eyes would be focused beyond the screen at whatever woman happened to be wearing a low-cut blouse. His other tactic was to scan the room as if looking for something, except that his eyes would freeze on a pretty woman for a few seconds before completing the sweep.”
“Classic moves.”
“Right?” Veronica said, wiping tears from her eyes. “Barry wasn’t perfect, but I’ll miss him. He had such a keen eye for art.”
A twentysomething Asian woman emerged from the back room and studied Ray curiously. Veronica motioned her over. “Keiko, this is Detective Hanley. I was just telling him about some of our artists. He’s interested in anything we can tell him that would help the investigation.”
“I wish I could help,” Keiko said, “but I honestly can’t imagine any of our artists harming Mr. Finkleton.”
“What about Don Martinez?” Ray asked.
Keiko shook her head. “He and Mr. Finkleton didn’t see eye to eye, but Don is a good person. There’s no way he could’ve done it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
Keiko shrugged. “I’ve always been good at reading people.”
“How about the artists Finkleton refused to exhibit?”
“Artists do wander in here from time to time wearing their hearts on their sleeves. But Barry didn’t like giving them false hopes. If he thought their work was terrible, he’d say so.”
“Any chance you kept records of the artists Finkleton rejected?”
Veronica shook her head. “Once Barry dismissed someone, that was it.”
“Can you think of a time when someone got angry about being dismissed?”
Veronica pursed her lips. “We did have a walk-in about a year ago who took Barry’s criticism very hard. It sticks in my mind because I got a very unsettling feeling about him.”
“What happened?”
“Barry thumbed through the artist’s portfolio and stopped on a certain painting. He said something sarcastic like, ‘What’s this supposed to be? Dante meets Dali?’ The artist started to respond, but Barry held up a hand and said he’d seen enough. ‘That’s not art, that’s a nightmare,’ he said. The artist got defensive and began pulling out other pictures, but Barry told him not to waste his time. On his way out, the artist gave Barry the most hateful stare I’ve ever seen. I never saw him again.”
“Did the artist make any threats?”
“Not verbally, but he pointed at Barry in a way that seemed threatening.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was white, I remember that. I guess medium build with brown hair, or maybe dirty blond? It’s been so long, I don’t know if I can trust my memory.”
“Can you describe the painting Barry mocked?”
Veronica nodded. “It was a baby crawling through a field of bleeding clocks.”
Ray arched an eyebrow. “That seems unusual.”
Keiko’s eyes lit up. “I saw that painting just the other day!”
“Where?” Ray asked.
“In Cambridge. Hanging in a coffee shop.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Seriously?” Garrison said. “This place?”
Billy shrugged. “It was Ray’s idea.”
Ray watched them approach from where he sat at an outdoor table at Finnegan’s Landing, where he’d been waiting for twenty minutes. It didn’t feel right to call it a patio, since the weathered resin furniture was arranged in the parking lot adjacent to the restaurant, offering an unobstructed view of West Broadway, where traffic was snarled from the stoplight opposite the Red Line subway station.
“Thanks for being so punctual,” Ray said.
“Are we seriously going to eat here?” Garrison asked.
“What’s not to like?” Ray said. “I hear they’ve got the best corned beef in the city.”
Billy cocked a thumb at the windowless brick building across the street. “You telling me your choice for lunch has nothing to do with keeping an eye on The Rock?”
Ray peeled a menu off the table. “That’s just a happy coincidence.”
“I call bullshit,” Billy said.
Ray smirked at Billy and Garrison as they settled into their seats. “What happened with the search of Coleman’s place?”
“We came up empty,” Garrison said. “The only thing Coleman was up to was his eyeballs in filth. I mean, that place was disgusting.”
“Yeah,” Billy said, “except Spinonni refused to believe there wasn’t anything incriminating. He and Sergeant Callahan drove out to see for themselves.”
“I’m guessing the outcome wasn’t any different?”
“Of course not,” Billy said. “You think those two added any value? Talk about a pain in my ass.”
“You think Coleman was telling the truth?” Ray asked. “About Finkleton at least?”
“Maybe,” Billy said. “Unless some of the DNA we collected from his house winds up belonging to Finkleton, but I doubt it.”
A middle-aged waiter with greasy, black hair and angular features emerged onto the sidewalk carrying a tray of drinks for a group of construction workers. After making the delivery, he turned to Ray’s table and did a double take.
“Ready to order?” he asked, fidgeting with his pen and notepad. His eyes passed over Garrison and a ghost of a sneer appeared beneath his features before morphing into something more benign.
After the waiter disappeared inside, Ray turned to Garrison. “You see him give you the once-over?”
“Must be the trooper hat,” Billy said.
“Yeah,” Garrison said, “because there aren’t any cop-hating racists in Southie.”
“Course not,” Ray said. “Not in this—”
The #9 bus roared past them on Broadway, drowning out his words as it barreled through the intersection to beat a red light.
Just another angry Boston driver, Ray thought.
When he turned back to the table, he noticed Jack Flaherty and one of his lieutenants striding toward them. When Flaherty reached them, he loomed over Ray’s chair and glared down at him with glacier-blue eyes. “If I didn’t know any better, detective, I’d swear you were stalking me. What’s next, you want to taste my shit to see what I ate for breakfast?”
The burly man standing beside Flaherty howled with laughter. “Good one,” he said, fingering a jagged white scar on his cheek.
Ray lifted an eyebrow. “If I wanted to know what you ate for breakfast, I’d just ask your mom. She and I are real tight.”
Billy kicked him under the table but Ray ignored the warning. “What are you and Mad Murph up to today? Shaking down local businesses? Finding some new kids to hook on heroin?”
Flaherty pulled out a chair and sat down. He propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Let me tell you a story, detective. When I was growing up in the Old Colony projects, we had this dog that used to lurk around the neighborhood. Mean-looking mutt, part Lab, part Rottie. Every once in a while some knucklehead tossed it a ham bone, and it always dragged it to the same place on the cement path near East 8th.
“You remember that dog, Billy? You must’ve seen it. I remember you trudging down that path as a kid, your face all swollen from where your old man liked to clock you for no good reason.”
Billy clenched his jaw and nodded.
“Anyway,” Flaherty said, “this dog didn’t like people getting too close, but it was always gnawing a bone on the path. You’d come around the bend, minding your own business, and that dog would be right in your face, snarling like a wolf. I always gave it a wide berth, but that sonofabitch would still bark at me with its head raised high, staring me down like it was itching for a fight. One day, I came around the bend listening to a Walkman I’d lifted from some Back Bay prepster and I nearly stumbled over the damn thing. It lunged at me, jaws snapping, and I lost my balance and fell onto the path. T
here I was, sitting on the ground, that dog barking right in my face, so close I could smell the stink of its breath. I reached for the Walkman and smashed it against the dog’s nose. It yelped in surprise and snapped at me, its teeth grabbing hold of my shirtsleeve. I yanked my arm back and the fabric tore free, leaving the dog with a tattered shred of hand-me-down flannel in its jaws.
“For a moment, it seemed unsure whether to attack or retreat, so I jumped on top of it and started wringing its neck. It twitched its legs and flailed around, suddenly looking like a sad little puppy instead of the mean mongrel that wanted to kill me just seconds before. I could’ve let go—I don’t think it would’ve bothered me again. But it had threatened me. And underestimated me. Two sins I find unforgivable. So I kept on squeezing until that sonofabitch was nothing but a dead dog in the road.”
Ray folded his arms and stared across the table as another bus roared down Broadway. “Well, that was a heartwarming story. You should consider writing children’s books.”
“You’re missing the point, detective.”
“Which is?”
“You’re beginning to remind me a lot of that dog.”
Ray lifted an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“You could arrest me for making a specific threat, couldn’t you, detective? Why don’t you just consider it a nice lunchtime story?”
“If we’re doing story time,” Ray said, “then you’ll love this one. It’s called, A Beginner’s Guide to Surviving Prison Rape. I think it’ll come in handy for where you’re going.”
A silver Infinity SUV lurched to a halt outside the restaurant. A dark-haired passenger in aviator sunglasses leaned out the window and sneered before leveling an AR-15 in their direction.
“Look out!” Garrison yelled.
Ray dove off the chair and took cover under the table, pressing his stomach against the ground as a staccato of gunfire rang in his ears and bullet casings jangled to the sidewalk like quarters spewing from a slot machine.
From the corner of his eye, Ray could see Mad Murph sprawled on his back in a pool of blood, his face blown half to bits. Billy lay to his right, flattened against the ground behind a barrier of railroad ties that separated the patio from the parking lot. Garrison was curled into a fetal position beneath the table, clutching his stomach and gritting his teeth. Flaherty crouched behind the trooper’s hulking form, his head tucked between his forearms.
The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller Page 12
