“What else do you have?”
Ray told the lieutenant about his conversation with Keiko and the painting they’d found at The Particle Bean. “It was signed The Artist and had a logo that looked like an X formed by two infinity symbols.”
Spinonni folded his arms. “So?”
“So, I found someone using the same name and symbol on a website where people comment on bizarre deaths. The Artist posted comments on two different threads—one with photos of Danny and the other with photos of Finkleton.”
Spinonni furrowed his brow. “I thought you said there was a medical angle. Now you’re telling me he’s an artist?”
“It’s possible he’s both, or that he’s working with someone.”
“Didn’t you say he referenced the Itsy Bitsy Spider in his posts?” Billy asked.
Ray had almost forgotten. “That’s right, and the harness securing Finkleton to the tree had the word Bitsy written on it. Almost like a pet name.”
Spinonni tapped a meaty finger against his desk. “Have you established contact?”
“We’ve arranged a meeting at The Particle Bean to see the rest of his portfolio,” Ray said.
“When?”
“This afternoon. Two o’clock.”
Spinonni eyeballed Callahan. “I want four undercover units on site.”
“If anything looks out of the ordinary,” Ray said, “we risk spooking this guy.”
Spinonni leaned forward. “Last time I checked, you don’t get a vote.”
Ray looked to Callahan for help, but the sergeant just shrugged.
“You get anyone from Computer Forensics to look at that website?” Spinonni asked.
“They’re checking into it now,” Ray said.
“Good. We’ll meet in the briefing room at noon to discuss the logistics. Oh, and one more thing. Your buddy Coleman is due for release today. Why don’t you see if you can prevent him from wandering around any new murder scenes, or is that too much to ask?”
***
When Ray arrived at The Particle Bean fifteen minutes prior to the arranged meeting time, three units were already on site. Detectives Greene and Pearce wore hardhats and orange reflective vests with Department of Public Works emblazoned across the back. They had set up cones around an open manhole cover and were standing to either side of it, pretending to take a coffee break.
Detectives Benton and Eisberg waited across the street in a white van with a vehicle wrap depicting a grinning Porky Pig holding a monkey wrench. It was one of eight logos the guys from the department had created, and when Spinonni first saw it, he nearly lost his mind over the derogatory insinuation. But due to budget constraints it remained in the rotation, and the guys used it as often as they could to get a rise out of the lieutenant.
Ray ordered a proton latte from the same man-bun-wearing millennial who’d served him before. He took a seat at a corner table facing the door and spotted Billy and Callahan across the café sipping coffee and pretending to be engrossed in conversation.
In his reply email, the Artist had said he’d be wearing jeans and a red T-shirt, but by 2:15 neither Ray nor the other units had seen anyone fitting that description. At 2:30, Ray approached the counter to speak to the manager.
“I bought a painting from you the other day.”
The manager nodded. “You’re not looking for a refund, are you?”
“I’m supposed to be meeting the artist here. Did you hear anything from him?”
The manager shook his head.
“You have any idea what he looks like?” Ray asked.
“I only met him once, about a year ago. He’s a white guy, has dark hair. I don’t think I could pick him out of a lineup.”
Ray lifted an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting choice of words.”
“Well, you are a cop, aren’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
The manager gestured to the barista with the man bun. “When Kenny came to get me the other day, he said that a couple of cops were interested in a painting.”
“How’d you know we were cops?” Ray asked.
The kid shrugged. “I don’t know, you just looked like cops to me. Tough guys in sports coats. Bad attitudes. Plus, I saw your partner’s gun when he sat down.”
“Have you had any contact with the artist?” Ray asked.
Kenny shook his head. “I don’t get involved in any of that. I just sell coffee, remember?”
“So you don’t know the artist?”
“No,” Kenny said.
Ray turned back to the manager. “I’ll need your contact information.”
The manager plucked a business card from a stack near the register. Ray glanced at the name on the card and handed him one of his own. “Okay, Mr. Baez. I’m gonna wait awhile longer. If you do hear from the artist, be it today or some other time, give me a call. And whatever you do, don’t tell him I’m a cop.”
***
It was 3:00 before Ray left The Particle Bean with Billy and Sergeant Callahan. The entire crew met back at the precinct, with Lieutenant Spinonni grilling them in the briefing room, where the walls were plastered with crime scene photos, diagrams, and newspaper clippings.
“What the hell happened?” Spinonni asked.
“He made us,” Billy said. “Too many goddamn cooks in the kitchen.”
Spinonni eyed Callahan. “Is that true?”
“I don’t see how he could’ve made us,” Callahan said.
Ray didn’t want to criticize the sergeant in front of Spinonni, but it wasn’t in his nature to hold his tongue. “The Artist would’ve been on high alert, knowing that we might be able to trace his art through Finkleton. And with the van parked across the street and the dummy DPW crew loitering out front, it would’ve been a red flag to anyone who’s seen a cop movie in the past twenty years.”
“But nobody spotted a guy in a red shirt near the building,” Callahan said, “which makes me think he never showed.”
“Unless he wore something different,” Ray said. “If he was worried about the art connection, he might’ve lied about the shirt to make himself invisible while he scoped out the scene.”
“What about surveillance footage?” Spinonni asked. “Anyone think to check the security cameras in the vicinity?”
“Greene and Pearce are working on it,” Callahan said.
“What about the manager?” Billy asked. “For all we know, he could’ve painted that picture himself.”
“Run a background check,” Spinonni said. “Do some reconnaissance work. Find some other goddamn way to crack this case.”
“We’re in the middle of chasing down other leads,” Ray said. “Right now, Gary’s team is checking the painting for prints and fibers. And I’ve still got that website to follow up on.”
“Don’t bother,” Spinonni said. “I checked with Computer Forensics while you were out. Those posts were made from 700 Boylston Street, as in the Boston Public Library.” He shook his head. “Your case has gone to shit, Hanley. And now I’ve got to let the captain know.”
***
Ray climbed into the Explorer and swore. “Come on,” he said, glaring at his phone.
“What is it?”
“I sent an email to the Artist after his no-show and it just came back undeliverable. He must’ve closed his account.”
“He’s covering his tracks,” Billy said. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
Ray slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “We just lost our only advantage. If he goes underground now, we can kiss this case goodbye.”
“Maybe Greene will find something at the library,” Billy said.
“You really believe that?”
Billy shook his head. “You know how many random prints they’ll find on those computers? So far, this guy has left behind almost no trace evidence. He’s like a ghost. Greene’s not gonna find anything.”
Ray heaved a sigh and tugged at his Kevlar vest, which he’d made a show of putting on before l
eaving for work. Even if they recovered surveillance video from near The Particle Bean or the library, it wouldn’t be much use since they only had a vague description of the Artist from The Particle Bean’s manager. And it certainly didn’t help that both locations saw a ton of pedestrian traffic around lunchtime, so picking a suspect out of the crowd wouldn’t be easy.
He could almost hear the phantom footsteps of the Artist slipping away. He drew a deep breath and stared through the windshield at the precinct’s wall, where the orange block letters of RJ’s weekly diss asked a perfectly reasonable question.
Why so many cops?
Because everyone needs an asshole.
Ray had a flashback of Tina sinking to her knees, and he imagined Michelle in that same moment, fighting to change Petey’s diaper, near tears because he wouldn’t just sit in one place after keeping her up half the night. At least he’d finally come to his senses and pushed Tina away before it could go any further. But he never should’ve let it get that far in the first place.
Just another asshole cop.
“You okay?” Billy asked.
“Yeah, fine.” He drew a deep breath. “I think we ought to talk to RJ again, see if he can remember anything else about that stripper or her son.”
“I thought we were gonna interview Finkleton’s artists,” Billy said. “The ones with their names in the eggs.”
“I meant after that.”
“It’s almost four o’clock. How many artists we got on the list?”
Ray reached into his sports jacket and withdrew a notepad from the interior pocket. “We’ve got four, but Greene met with two while we were on leave.”
“The ones we agreed on?”
Ray flipped to a dogeared page near the end of his notebook. “He questioned Nathan Devoux, a retired engineer, and Ryan Masters, a younger artist who paints mostly nautical scenes.”
“Anything worth following up on?”
Ray shook his head. “According to Greene, Devoux was a real grandfatherly type. Nice guy. On the heavy side. Too out of shape to be kidnapping men half his age.”
“What about Masters?”
“He was soft spoken, kind of sensitive. Seemed pretty broken up about Finkleton’s murder. Which makes sense, since Veronica said his career had taken off under Finkleton. Also, he was in San Fran at the time of the murder.”
“He could’ve hired it out,” Billy said.
“What the Artist did to him was way too personal to delegate.”
“He could’ve gotten Finkleton prepped and then had someone else string him up once he was in California.”
“I think the Artist would’ve wanted to be there in the final moments,” Ray said. “Part of his MO is psychological torture. He would’ve taunted Finkleton before killing him, just like he taunted us by putting that spider in the egg.”
Billy ran a hand through his pompadour. “Did Greene show them the picture you took of the painting?”
Ray nodded. “Devoux and Masters claimed they’d never seen it before.”
“And Greene believed them?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“What about the three prints Gary found on the gatepost, the shoplifter and DUIs? Greene get to them too?” Billy asked.
“Didn’t amount to anything. Just like you said.”
Billy held out his hand. “You owe me twenty bucks.”
“I never took that bet.”
“Sure you didn’t,” Billy said. “So who’s the next artist on the list?”
Ray fired up the Explorer and shifted into reverse. “I’ll tell you on the way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Suzie Coleman faded in and out of consciousness, drifting between nightmare visions and a nightmare reality. She was lost in the cold embrace of the living darkness, where the slow drip of unseen water punctuated the quiet suffering of another restless night. In her dreams, she languished in the dark forever, with only the Artist looming over her to satisfy his urges. In her waking moments, the dank air of the gallery prickled her skin with gooseflesh, and the incessant whimpering of her cellmate grated against her already frayed nerves.
She once had high hopes for Greg, although she could no longer pinpoint when that once was. Time seemed to ebb and flow in this place rather than tick away in the traditional sense. Somewhere in that continuum, she recalled the Artist wheeling Greg into the gallery. He was strapped to a gurney and appeared unconscious, his broad chest chiseled with muscle.
The Artist hummed an upbeat tune as he pierced Greg’s nose and fastened a golden ring through his nostrils. To complete the metamorphosis, he implanted plastic horns into Greg’s shaved scalp and tattooed a red bull’s-eye on his chest. Then, he hoisted his newly minted minotaur into the air with a rope and pulley and secured him against the wall, clothing him in nothing but a loincloth.
When Greg regained consciousness, he raged against his chains with such savagery that Suzie half-expected the iron ringlets to tear out of the wall.
The Artist watched his antics with quiet amusement. He clucked his tongue and said, “Let’s play a game, shall we?” He stalked across the gallery and grabbed an old croquet mallet leaning against the wall. He walked back to Greg and brandished the mallet. “What do you say, Suzie? Think I can hit the bull’s-eye?”
Before Suzie could reply, the Artist swung the mallet into Greg’s stomach, making a sound like a fastball striking a catcher’s mitt. Greg’s face twisted into a mask of agony, his jaw dropping open in a silent scream.
The Artist flipped the mallet into the air and pumped his fist as if he’d just hit a homerun. He turned toward the far wall, where a camera was always rolling, recording everything with its unblinking red eye. He cupped his hands over his mouth and did a surprisingly good impression of a gameshow host.
“Tell the Artist what he’s won!”
“Well, Bob, today’s winner will receive the board game version of Whack-A-Bull, plus seven minutes in heaven with Mrs. C.”
The Artist patted Greg’s foot, which dangled shoulder-height above the ground. “Thanks for playing, Greg, but you should really work on those abs.”
The Artist sauntered over to Suzie and caressed her thighs. “Call me crazy, but I feel like we both won.” He unfastened his belt and wriggled out of his jeans, grinning as he exposed himself to her.
Suzie shrank against the wall as the Artist ran his hands over her breasts. He pressed himself against her and the scent of his cologne wafted into her nostrils—a pungent musk that only partially concealed an underlying stench that made her stomach turn.
“Seven minutes just doesn’t seem like enough, does it?” He wrapped his hands around the small of her back and thrust himself inside her. “Do a good job,” he groaned, “and I’ll flip you over for the bonus round.”
Later that night, after the Artist had locked up, Suzie and Greg plotted their revenge. Greg spoke confidently about escape, although Suzie didn’t see how that was possible. Even if Greg managed to strangle the Artist with his legs, how would he break free of the chains?
She imagined them starving to death, their bodies progressing through various stages of decay until they were nothing but skeletons dangling from the wall, every grueling moment caught on video for some unknown audience.
But Greg kept ignoring this fact, instead boasting about how he could snap the Artist’s neck in one jerk of his feet, or how he could knock the Artist unconscious with a kick to the head. Maybe it was just a coping mechanism.
But as time eked by in their windowless dungeon, the Artist taunted and beat Greg as punishment for his sins. Depriving him of food. Playing round after round of Whack-A-Bull. It took its toll. He stopped boasting about killing the Artist or finding a way to escape. And, after the Artist castrated him, he became a shadow of his former self, reduced to a blubbering man-child who whimpered around the clock, resigned to whatever horrible fate the Artist had planned.
She found it hard to pity him. He was weak-minded and mean
, and he lacked the mental fortitude necessary for survival. While she’d rather not have eaten his Rocky Mountain oysters, she couldn’t afford to refuse a meal. And if Greg had watched with betrayal as she dined—particularly when the Artist had clicked his oyster against hers following a toast—it eased her conscience to remember how his loincloth had swelled every time the Artist had his way with her.
She was on her own now. It was best not to forget that. Greg was as good as dead, and she had to assume the Artist had killed Bitsy and the man with the phallic trunk, the one he called the Elephant. She had to face facts. She was alone with a psycho, chained naked to the wall and kept on display like a living statue. A cushioned platform the size of a textbook supported her butt, leaving her legs dangling two feet above the floor in much the same way she once sat on the edge of her grandpa’s diving board when she was a kid.
The position subjected her to frequent and painful cramps, which she could only partially combat by pulling herself upright on the platform. Standing allowed her arms the luxury of resting against her sides. It also alleviated the pressure on her butt, which had developed sores from prolonged sitting.
Suzie stretched her legs and gazed into the darkness. How long had it been now? Days? Weeks? Months? Would anyone ever find her? Was Jim beside himself with grief? Or was he already shacking up with that slut he met in New York?
They were dangerous thoughts, the sort that could drive a person mad. She’d seen it happen to the Elephant. By the end, he’d gone batshit crazy—giggling to himself, shouting at things that weren’t there. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up just like him.
Escape was only possible if she kept her wits. Which was why she exercised her mind by remembering song lyrics, movie lines, and passages from books, recalling words lost to her for years, extracting them from the dark fissures of her brain where nothing was ever truly forgotten.
When she couldn’t sleep, she composed her own poetry, reciting the verses in her mind, since speaking them aloud felt dangerously close to insanity. The poems were dark and terrible, but they were also cathartic and served to compartmentalize her fears so that she could lock them away where they wouldn’t cripple her. Tonight’s work was still fresh in her mind.
The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller Page 16
