The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller

by Derik Cavignano

  “Can you refine the search?” Ray asked. “Widen the age range and look for first or middle names beginning with A?”

  Clint nodded. “You got it.”

  Ray turned to Sergeant Callahan. “I’ll also follow up with the FBI agents who raided the Puma. They’re supposed to be checking payroll records to see if they can find any information on Angie T.”

  Callahan rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that.”

  The FBI had a long history of unresponsiveness to the Boston police, especially when a request wasn’t directly tied to their case.

  “I could go back to the Puma and interview more strippers,” Billy said. “Maybe ask a few questions over dinner.”

  Callahan chuckled. “You’ve got a serious problem, Billy.”

  “I was thinking,” Greene said, his eyes staring past them, “the Artist might have some victims we don’t know about.”

  “Who do we have missing right now?” Garrison asked.

  “Not counting runaways, we’ve got Suzie Coleman and Greg Cassidy,” Callahan said. He gestured to Ray, Billy, and Greene. “And these are the guys working those cases.”

  “We’ve considered the link to the Coleman case,” Ray said. “And there could be something to it. Suzie lives around the corner from where we found Finkleton. She also went to art school.”

  “And Greg is a construction worker who lives in Southie,” Greene said. “He’s a known womanizer who was last seen at the Bell in Hand Tavern. There are no obvious connections to the Artist, but I’ll have another look at his file to see if anything intersects with Finkleton, Danny, or Coleman.”

  Callahan nodded. “That gives me enough to update the lieutenant.”

  Billy chuckled. “Have fun with that.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Ray arrived home to the sound of Petey squealing with delight. It was damn near impossible not to smile at that sound, no matter how stressful his day. He kicked his shoes off and padded into the living room, where Petey sat on Michelle’s lap like a chubby little Buddha.

  Jason and Allie sat on either side of Petey, singing their own rendition of “The Wheels on the Bus,” except in their version the babies on the bus went beep, beep, beep, and with every beep they poked a finger into Petey’s belly. It was something they’d started when Petey was three months old, and they only had to sing the first two words before Petey went bonkers.

  When Petey caught sight of Ray, he squirmed off Michelle’s lap and toddled over to him with his arms raised above his head. “Da-da home, want up.”

  Ray lifted him into the air and gave him a squeeze. “Did you have a good day, buddy?”

  Petey drew his lips together in an exaggerated pout. “Sparky poop my shoe.”

  “Sorry to hear that, buddy. Trust me, we’ve all been there.”

  Allie flung her arms around his leg. “Daddy, come see what we made. It’s in the kitchen, hurry!”

  He reached down and ruffled her hair. “Okay, honey, just give me a couple minutes to get changed.”

  “I made something too,” Jason said.

  Ray gave him a high-five. “Wait for me in the kitchen and I’ll be right there, okay?”

  As Jason and Allie scampered away, Michelle’s clear blue eyes locked on his and he felt an inexplicable certainty that she could peer into his mind and ferret out his infidelity like a bomb-sniffing dog.

  “Uh, how was your day?” he asked, bouncing Petey in his arms.

  Michelle stood up and winced, stretching her back. “Tiring.”

  Ray set Petey down on the floor and watched him bound off toward the kitchen in a toddle-run hybrid that seemed to be less of a toddle every day.

  Michelle folded herself into Ray’s arms and pressed her cheek against his chest.

  “That bad?” he asked.

  When she glanced up, her face looked haggard, as if she hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in days. “They’re my children,” she said, “and I love them, but sometimes I feel like I’m being pecked to death by chickens.”

  Ray would’ve laughed if not for the grim expression on her face. Instead, he kissed her forehead and held her close. But in the back of his mind, he could hear Tina moaning. Christ, he was better than that, wasn’t he? Not just another dirtbag cop? Or was that who he was all along, and he’d just never been tested? Why hadn’t he bolted when she first reached for his pants instead of waiting until halfway through a blowjob?

  He’d made a mistake. And whether Michelle knew it or not, he’d driven a crack into the foundation of their marriage. If he wasn’t careful, everything they’d built would come crumbling down around them, because Michelle wasn’t the sort of woman who’d forgive a sin like that.

  Some secrets a man had to bury deep, and so he wrapped this one in chains and dropped it into the abyss of his mind, hoping to hell it never clawed its way out. And, in the meantime, he vowed never to betray her again.

  “Is something wrong?” Michelle asked.

  “No, just a lot happening at work.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really. I just need to get out of this monkey suit so I can decompress.” He headed into the bedroom and changed into his standard lounge clothes—a pair of basketball shorts and a worn Red Sox T-shirt.

  Michelle appeared in the doorway as he shoved his dirty clothes into the hamper. “I was thinking we could open a bottle of wine after the kids go to bed. You know, make it into a date night. I feel like it’s been a while.”

  “Uh, yeah. That sounds good.” But his stomach knotted at the idea. How was he supposed to make it through date night if he could barely look her in the eyes?

  Allie yelled from the kitchen. “Daddy, what’s taking so long? I wanna show you what I made!”

  “Be right there.” He glanced at Michelle and shrugged, relieved to escape the date night conversation. When he got into the kitchen, Allie unfolded a long chain of brown construction paper topped with a crown of green.

  “Ta-da! Do you like it?”

  “I love it,” he said, petting her blond locks. “Is it a tree?”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “Of course it’s a tree, Daddy. What else would it be?”

  “It’s for the Three Billy Goats Gruff play,” Jason said, coming around the island with his own artwork. “We’re helping with the decorations. I made a rock,” he said, holding up a patchwork of gray construction paper.

  “Looks great, buddy.”

  “And that’s not the only surprise,” Michelle said.

  “There’s more?” Ray lifted an eyebrow in mock disbelief.

  Allie waved her hands in the air and jumped up and down. “I got the part! I’m gonna be the baby billy goat Gruff!”

  Ray swept her into his arms and kissed her forehead. “I’m so proud of you, honey. You’ll be the prettiest goat in the whole school.”

  “Thanks, Daddy!”

  He set her down and she skipped away toward the playroom with Jason and Petey trailing after her. “When’s the play?” he asked.

  “Friday at six,” Michelle said. “Can you make it?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there. I can’t wait to see her in that costume.”

  “Me too. It’ll be adorable. Oh, and just so you know, Jason tried out for the oldest billy goat but didn’t get the part. He says he’s not upset, but it looked like he was on the verge of tears when Allie told you her news.”

  “Should I talk to him?”

  “Maybe later. He seems content playing with Allie and Petey right now.”

  Neither spoke for a moment, and the silence felt awkward. “Can I give you a hand with dinner?”

  “Sorry, hon, but the kids and I already ate. There’s a plate for you in the fridge. Chicken with pasta.” She opened the fridge and grabbed the plate and a bottle of wine. “Would you like a glass? I decided I can’t wait until the kids are in bed.”

  “Is it red or white?”

  “I wouldn’t put red in the fridge.”

/>   “My mom always did.”

  “Your mom is nuts. Normal people don’t do that.”

  Ray shrugged and carried the plate to the kitchen table.

  “You’re not going to heat that up?”

  “I like it cold.”

  Michelle wrinkled her nose and poured him a glass of wine. It was one of her trademark gestures and he loved how cute it made her look, even though it was her unspoken way of saying, I think you’re being an idiot, but whatever.

  She raised her glass and held it out to him.

  “We’re toasting?” he asked, lifting his glass. “To what?”

  “To date night.”

  “Uh, okay. To date night.”

  They clinked glasses.

  When he finished eating, Michelle got up to pour them another glass. “I almost forgot,” she said, handing him a manila envelope from the counter. “This came for you today.”

  There was no stamp, no return address. Just his first name typed in all caps on a stick-on label. Simple, efficient, and untraceable. He set the envelope on the table and stared at it, his gut filling with dread. “Where’d this come from?”

  “Someone rang the doorbell and left it on the porch.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Around noon. The kids were still at school.”

  Ray reached beside his plate for a butter knife and wiped it clean with a napkin. He slid the blade beneath the envelope’s metal fastener and pried up the prongs. If there were any prints on it, he wanted them preserved.

  “What is it?” Michelle asked.

  Ray peered inside the envelope and thumbed through a stack of photos, his heart thumping in his chest. Instead of another murder victim, the photos depicted Ray and Tina together, and although they weren’t at lunch, she did have her mouth full.

  He met Michelle’s eyes over the table. “You didn’t open this?”

  She shook her head. “Why, what is it?”

  “Crime scene photos. Grisly ones. You didn’t see who left the envelope?”

  “I was in the middle of changing Petey’s diaper. They were gone by the time I got to the door. Do you think it was Billy?”

  Ray shook his head.

  “Then who?”

  He clenched his jaw and stared down at the envelope. “Someone who’s playing games with me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sal Giabatti leaned against the rail and gazed at the track with a rolled-up racing program clutched in one hand. As usual, he was dressed to the nines in a designer suit and trendy sunglasses. Ray figured the whole getup must’ve cost him at least three grand.

  A bugle announced the call to post and a group of diminutive jockeys led their horses to the starting gate as a voice like the great and powerful Oz emanated from the loudspeakers, urging everyone to place a bet. Giabatti flattened the program against the rail and made a few marks on the page with a Mont Blanc pen, then handed the program to one of his hulking enforcers, who climbed the steps to the grandstand to register the bet.

  Ray gave Garrison a nod and they rose from their seats and descended toward Giabatti, who watched their progress with a knowing smirk.

  “Beautiful day for a race, isn’t it boys?” Giabatti said.

  Garrison nodded. “Can’t you tell I’ve been working on my tan?”

  “How long have you known we were here?” Ray asked.

  “Long enough,” Giabatti said. “I’ve got eyes everywhere.”

  Ray wasn’t surprised. Giabatti had a lot of dangerous enemies. He’d risen to power by pitting his rivals against one another, and those who’d survived still had an axe to grind. But the odds of anyone toppling Giabatti were next to nothing. The old man was a master manipulator who was rumored to think three steps ahead of everyone else.

  “You believe they’re talking about closing this place down?” Giabatti said. “With all this history?”

  “What history?” Ray asked. “Race fixing?”

  “I’m talking real history,” Giabatti said. “Seabiscuit ran some of his best races here. And the Beatles, they played right over there in ’66.” Giabatti let out a nostalgic sigh. “I love this place—the sights, the smells, the excitement. You can feel it in the air like electricity.”

  Ray looked at the faces in the crowd, but the only emotions he detected were sadness and desperation.

  “Who do you have in the next race?” Garrison asked.

  “Thunderstud to win,” Giabatti said, and winked. “I’ve got a good feeling about that horse.”

  “Yeah,” Ray said, “I bet you do.”

  Giabatti chuckled. “What is it this time? The drive-by?”

  Garrison nodded.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t come sooner.”

  “We’ve been busy,” Ray said.

  “So I’ve heard. Didn’t I tell you it would be one hell of a bloody summer?”

  “Did you order it?” Garrison asked.

  Giabatti’s face darkened. “Do you really think I’d authorize a drive-by shooting in a public place? Vito and Donny went crazy with revenge. End of story.”

  “Revenge for Jimmy and Mikey?” Garrison asked.

  “Yeah,” Giabatti said, “for Jimmy and Mikey.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Ray said. “You’re saying you would’ve killed Flaherty’s guys a different way, but Vito and Donny jumped the gun.”

  “You know I’m not gonna answer that.”

  “But you know I’ve got to ask.”

  Giabatti’s eyes narrowed. “I hear you’re the one who shot Vito.”

  Ray nodded. There was no use denying it.

  “I don’t fault you for it,” Giabatti said.

  “I appreciate that,” Ray said, “but I’m not in the business of staying in your good graces.”

  Giabatti let out a belly laugh. “That’s what I like about you, Ray. You always stick to your principles. I respect that.”

  “So work with me,” Ray said. “Tell me what you know about Jimmy and Mikey’s murders. Give me something I can use to nail Flaherty. Because the way I see it, putting away that psychopath is in everyone’s best interest.”

  “Like I told you before,” Giabatti said, “it’s a family matter.”

  Ray held Giabatti’s eyes for a moment, but it was clear the old man wasn’t going to budge. He and Flaherty had a long, sordid history, and if Giabatti ratted on Flaherty, Flaherty would drag the old man down with him. It was a classic Mexican standoff, and unless one of them got immunity from prosecution, the other would keep his mouth shut. And the odds of either turning state’s witness were about as good as Michelle laughing off his indiscretion with Tina.

  The ring of the starting bell caught them all by surprise. Giabatti’s face lit up as the gates flung wide and the horses stormed onto the track, their hooves kicking up dirt. A ripple of excitement moved through the crowd and the entire grandstand shot to its feet.

  Giabatti drummed his hands against the rail. “Come on, Thunderstud! Run, you sonofabitch!”

  The announcer called the play-by-play, the words rolling from his lips so fast Ray could barely register their meaning. He focused his attention on the track and watched a trio of horses round the bend and break away from the pack. They thundered into the homestretch, jockeys bent over the saddles.

  For a few moments, it looked as though there might be a three-way tie, but then a muscular gray horse surged ahead in the final yards, its mane flapping in the wind.

  “I don’t believe it!” the announcer bellowed. “It’s Thunderstud by a length! A thirty-to-one payout. How do you like that?”

  Ray looked at Giabatti and arched an eyebrow. “Now ain’t that a coincidence?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Suzie Coleman stared into the darkness and cursed the interminable night. Sleep was a rarity that came in fleeting spells that were frequently interrupted by muscle spasms, nightmares, and vertigo. A raw and seeping chill permeated the air, combining with a gnawing hunger and excruciating
cramps to form a trifecta of misery that was surely the envy of Satan, himself.

  Eventually, night yielded to day and a halo of light materialized around the gallery door. Soon thereafter, the sound of footsteps emanated from the hallway beyond, and Suzie closed her eyes and listened to the Artist fiddling with the locks.

  She’d heard it enough times to distinguish the sound of three separate locks—a spring-loaded deadbolt, a latch bolt, and a chain. When the jangling ceased, the door swung open with a reluctant screech of hinges like a stereotypical house of horrors, leaving Suzie to wonder if it was art imitating life or life imitating art.

  The Artist wheeled a stainless-steel cart into the gallery and flicked on the light. “Rise and shine, my little ones. It’s another beautiful day.”

  As he turned to shut the door, Suzie caught a glimpse of a small, metallic object gleaming on the ground, reflecting the light from the hall. She made a mental map of its location and watched the Artist push the cart into the center of the gallery. It was the same one that normally held his surgical tools, except now it held a ceramic bowl and a brown paper bag instead.

  He leered at Suzie. “Don’t you look ravishing this morning? Did you do something different with your hair?”

  She forced a smile. “Just a finger comb.”

  “You did that for me?”

  “Yes,” she said, trying to sound sincere. “You’re my caretaker now. I want to do what I can to please you.”

  And manipulate you… and murder you.

  “I’m glad to see that you’re finally coming around.” He dragged the stepladder over to her. “How about a little handfeeding this morning? And no, I’m not talking about Bitsy. You finished off his pudgy little hand days ago.” He climbed onto the stepladder and gazed into her eyes. “You know, Suzie, I always knew our paths would cross again one day. And here we are after all these years.”

  Suzie had a flashback of him sitting in the back of a police car, his brooding expression conveying a complex mix of emotions—anger, sadness, betrayal, surprise—as if he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong.