The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller

by Derik Cavignano

  Something cold pressed against her lips and she realized the Artist was trying to push a spoon into her mouth.

  “Earth to Suzie,” he said. “Are you thinking about old times?”

  She could smell the yogurt even before tasting it and her mouth instantly watered. “So good,” she said, and meant it.

  “I remembered how much you loved Greek yogurt mixed with honey.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and meant that too.

  “You’re welcome, darling.”

  “Hey,” Greg said, suddenly perking up. “What about me?”

  The Artist clucked his tongue. “Be patient, my insolent Minotaur. I’ve got a special treat for you.” When he finished feeding Suzie, he tossed Greg the brown paper bag. “Bon appétit.”

  Greg tore open the bag and shoved a fistful of lawn clippings into his mouth.

  The Artist turned toward the camera. “Grass-fed cattle,” he said. “It’s the responsible choice.”

  Greg ate several handfuls before throwing the bag to the ground. “I’m still hungry,” he grumbled, and Suzie noticed that his teeth were stained green.

  The Artist reached into his back pocket and waved a stick of beef jerky at him, as if offering to play fetch.

  Greg lunged for the jerky, but the Artist yanked it away.

  “Ah, ah, not so fast. You know what you have to do.”

  Greg’s face darkened. “I don’t want to.”

  “Suit yourself,” the Artist said. “I’m sure Suzie will eat it. You know how this girl loves meat.”

  Greg heaved a sigh. “Fine,” he said, and began to sing in a half-decent baritone.

  I’m a big, strong bull

  On a little farm,

  And all through the years,

  I’ve been causing harm,

  ‘Cause there was nobody

  In the whole damn town,

  Who could put me in my place,

  Until along came Farmer Brown.

  The Artist rocked on his heels, clapping in time with the music. When the song ended, he slid the jerky into Greg’s outstretched hand. “Now tell me, who is Farmer Brown?”

  “You are,” Greg said, gobbling up the treat.

  “That’s right, Greg. I’m Farmer Brown, and you’ve been a very naughty bull, haven’t you?”

  Greg nodded. “I’m sorry for bullying you when we were kids.”

  “The time for sorry has passed. Now is the time for atonement.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  The Artist stooped down to retrieve the paper bag, and Greg’s eyes lit up with the realization that he was within striking distance. Suzie glared at Greg and gave her head a violent shake. It wasn’t the right time. Greg seemed to realize it too, and Suzie watched the tension drain from his muscles as he leaned back against the wall.

  The Artist crumpled up the paper bag and tossed it onto the cart, oblivious to the fact that he’d nearly been choked to death.

  Suzie’s eyes shifted to the video camera. How often did he review the footage?

  The Artist tapped a finger against his lips and stared at the empty section of wall beside Greg. “Does anyone else miss Bitsy? I never realized how much that fat little spider brightened my day. Oh well, he’s living the good life now—hanging out in nature, catching all sorts of flies. Perhaps even a few worms.”

  A searing pain shot through Suzie’s leg and she stumbled against the wall, nearly falling off the platform. She gritted her teeth and tried to massage her thigh where the muscle had contracted into a bulging mass.

  “What is it?” the Artist asked.

  She could barely talk through the pain. “Charley horse.”

  “Would it help to walk around? You’ve earned some loyalty points today, and I suppose it’s in my best interest to keep you limber, if you know what I mean.”

  Suzie glanced up from her leg. Was he serious? Or was it another one of his cruel jokes?

  The Artist climbed onto the stepladder and gazed into her eyes. “You won’t try anything stupid?”

  “Please, I just need to stretch.”

  The Artist regarded her for a long moment. “None of my exhibits has ever received this privilege, so if you even think about taking advantage of my kindness, you will be a very sorry goddess. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” she said, and planted a kiss on his lips.

  The Artist’s face softened, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of the young man she once knew.

  “I’ll be back with the key,” he said, and exited the gallery. He returned a few minutes later with a small black key, which he held before her eyes. “You promise to be good?”

  “I promise.”

  He inserted the key into the slot of each shackle and her restraints fell away from her arms and jangled against the wall, the lengths of chain swinging behind her. She glanced at her bare wrists. For the first time since awakening in the Artist’s gallery of horrors, she was free.

  The Artist guided her down from the platform, her knees buckling on the stepladder. “Easy does it,” he said, catching her in his arms and helping her to the floor.

  Suzie’s eyes welled up at the feel of solid ground. “I’ll just walk in a circle, okay? I promise I’ll be good.”

  “That’s not fair!” Greg shouted. “Why does she get to stretch and I don’t?”

  “Don’t worry,” the Artist said, “you’ll get your exercise soon enough. I’m planning a Whack-a-Bull marathon for later this afternoon.” The Artist rolled his eyes and looked at Suzie. “Have you ever met such a crybaby?”

  She shook her head and bent down to touch her toes, her eyes zeroing in on the metallic object she’d spotted earlier. It was a panel nail, and it lay a few inches from her outstretched hand. But with the Artist standing so near, watching her with a quiet intensity, how could she get it without him noticing?

  And then she had an idea.

  She returned to a standing position and smiled coyly at the Artist. “I think you’ll like this move,” she said, and made a show of bending over in front of him.

  She could feel everything spreading apart down there as her fingertips brushed the concrete, and she prayed that his attention was focused on her lady parts rather than her hands. A moment later, she had the nail pinched between her thumb and forefinger. She stood slowly, sliding her hands along her thighs as she straightened, and tucked the nail into the fold of her labia. She sensed the Artist moving toward her and felt her stomach clench with dread. He’d seen what she’d done… and now he’d punish her.

  But his face told a different story.

  “Now, that’s what I call stretching! I should’ve let you out of those manacles ages ago.” He slid his arms around her waist and pulled her so close she could feel the wild thump of his heart against her chest. “I need you,” he whispered, his breath steaming in her ear. “Lie down on that gurney.”

  But Suzie remained rooted to the floor, a wave of panic washing over her.

  The Artist’s face hardened. “You’d better not be toying with me.”

  “No, it’s just… I’m sore down there from last time.”

  He was about to protest, but Suzie pressed a finger against his lips. “Can you think of anywhere else you’d like to put it?”

  The Artist grinned. “Aren’t you a dirty girl?” He took her hand and guided her to the stepladder. “Bend over this,” he said, unzipping his jeans.

  She forced another smile before gripping the top rung of the ladder with sweat-slicked palms and bending over it with her butt raised. When it was over, it hurt to straighten, but she still had the nail tucked into her secret place, and she considered that a victory.

  The Artist hiked up his pants. “I suppose you’ve done enough limbering up for one day. Let’s get you back to your station.”

  Greg’s eyes locked on hers as she stepped toward the platform and she knew that he wanted her to lure the Artist to within strangling dist
ance. But Greg’s section was at least six feet away from hers. If she veered even a foot beyond her platform, the Artist would sense an ambush. It was too risky. It was her first time out of the chains and the Artist was on high alert. Better for her to bide her time, gain his trust, and wait for him to let his guard down.

  She avoided Greg’s eyes and climbed onto the stepladder, accepting a hand from the Artist. He guided her onto her platform and clamped the shackles around her wrists.

  Please, God, don’t let this be a mistake.

  The Artist pressed his lips against hers and she nearly gagged on the hot stink of his breath. “I’ve got a feeling we’ll be together for a long time, Suzie.” He cocked a thumb at Greg. “But I’m not so sure about him.”

  “What do you mean?” Greg asked.

  “I’m afraid you won’t be around much longer. You lack the necessary skills for survival, and frankly, you just don’t have the balls.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Well, look who got himself all cleaned up,” Billy said, cocking a thumb at Coleman. “You got a new girlfriend already?”

  Coleman held open the door as Ray and Billy stepped inside. “I decided it was time to get off the couch and do something to help bring Suzie back.”

  “What’s different now?” Ray asked. “Why didn’t you take charge when she first went missing?”

  Coleman regarded him with an icy stare. “Do you have any idea how it feels for your wife to go missing and for everyone in the world to believe you killed her, including people you thought were your friends. I shut down, okay?”

  “Better late than never, right?” Billy asked. “Except in a case like this, every second counts.”

  Coleman’s face flushed crimson. “I know that,” he said, an edge creeping into his voice.

  “Then why the hell weren’t you acting like it?” Billy asked. “You made it that much harder for us to do our jobs. And let’s not even get into why you thought it was a good idea to go snooping around a crime scene.”

  “I told you, I was in a messed-up place. But I want to fix it now. I have something to tell you guys.”

  “What’s that?” Ray said.

  “I started thinking about this guy Suzie dated during freshman year of college. It was a long time ago, but maybe he’s still holding a grudge.”

  “Go on,” Ray said.

  “She had been dating him for a few weeks when I first met her at a frat party. Suzie and I clicked right away, and for the next couple of weeks we were inseparable. But all that time, the guy—Brendan—kept calling and leaving her these pathetic messages like, ‘I can’t function without you’ or ‘why won’t you call me back’ or ‘please, Suzie, I just need to hear your voice.’

  She felt too bad to break up with him since it was obviously going to shatter the guy’s ego. She said it would be like shooting a puppy, but I told her it wasn’t fair to keep stringing him along. So, finally, she called him to break the news.

  “We both expected him to get all weepy and beg her to reconsider, but instead he hung up without a word. About ten minutes later, while we were rolling around on her bed celebrating our newfound freedom, Brendan pounded on her door. He sounded like he’d gone completely unhinged, screaming and cursing and ramming his body against the door. I heard him yelling, ‘Is someone in there with you? I swear to God I’ll kill him!’ Suzie managed to grab the phone and alert campus security before the doorjamb split and Brendan charged inside. He made a beeline for me as I rolled out of bed and pulled up my pants. He shoved me against the wall and grabbed a lamp off the bedside table. Smashed me in the temple and knocked me flat.

  “Suzie had a little mop of a dog named Maddy, and while all of this was going on, Maddy was barking like a maniac. When Brendan grabbed Suzie by the shoulders and started shaking her, Maddy clamped her jaws around his ankle. She was just a tiny thing—and usually as sweet as could be—but she had a mouthful of needles. When Maddy refused to let go, Brendan grabbed the same lamp he’d used on me and drew it back over his shoulder to hit the dog, but Suzie threw herself in between them. For some reason that snapped Brendan out of his rage. He muttered something under his breath and let the lamp slide out of his hand before hurrying out the door. I started to go after him, but I barely made it into the hall before I got woozy and fell down. I didn’t realize it then, but I ended up needing a half dozen stitches.

  “Brendan got expelled and would’ve done jail time, but Suzie opted for a restraining order instead of pressing charges. I still can’t understand why. Maybe she didn’t want to confront him in court. I know she certainly never wanted to see him again.”

  Billy glared at Coleman. “How the hell is this the first time you’re telling us about this guy?”

  Coleman shrugged. “I was in shock. And then I was drunk. I mean, you saw me. I could barely get my pants on in the morning. And besides, it happened ten years ago and we haven’t heard from the guy since.”

  “Her parents never mentioned the incident to us either,” Ray said. “Why?”

  “They didn’t know. I think Suzie wanted to put it out of her mind, pretend like it never happened. We never talked about the attack. I mean, not once in ten years. Which is probably why I didn’t think of it right away.”

  “You’d better hope it doesn’t turn out to be this guy,” Billy said, “because I don’t know how you’d live with yourself.”

  Coleman’s eyes welled up. “Please, just find her.”

  Ray and Billy exchanged a glance. “Come on,” Ray said, heading for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Coleman asked.

  “We’re gonna have a chat with campus police,” Ray said.

  ***

  Since Coleman was unable to recall Brendan’s full name or the exact date of the incident, Sergeant Drescher of the New England College of Art and Design campus police ran the search under Suzie’s name, which back in the day was Suzie Paragopolis.

  A description of the incident popped up on Drescher’s computer and the events matched Coleman’s story, except the dog’s name was Mandy instead of Maddy—a detail that spoke volumes about Coleman’s attentiveness to his wife’s feelings. They thanked Sergeant Drescher and left with a printout of the incident report.

  Billy dialed the precinct from the car. “I need a full report on Brendan Taritello,” he said, and gave Brendan’s social security number to Clint.

  Ray drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. This was exactly the break they’d been waiting for—an art student with a history of violence, someone with an old grudge against both Suzie and Jim Coleman. It meshed perfectly with the Artist’s MO.

  “Are you sure?” Billy said into the phone. “That’s all you got? Alright, thanks,” he said and hung up. He turned to Ray. “You’re not gonna believe this.”

  “What?”

  “Brendan Taritello died three years ago.”

  Ray slammed his fist against the console. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “He was killed in a single car wreck on the Mass Pike.”

  Ray strangled the steering wheel. “Christ.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  RJ stood upon the footbridge overlooking the Public Garden lagoon. A pair of swan boats glided along the water beneath him, set against a lush backdrop of weeping willows, cherry trees, and tulips. Instead of his usual tank top and baggy shorts, RJ wore dress slacks with a button-down shirt and paisley tie. He’d even trimmed his facial hair into a respectably groomed goatee.

  “What’s with the getup?” Billy asked. “You fishing for yuppies?”

  “This outfit just charmed a lady judge into dismissing my speeding tickets.”

  “I thought I told you to stay out of trouble,” Ray said.

  “What, you never got a speeding ticket?” RJ asked.

  “It all adds up,” Ray said. “Speeding tickets, vandalism, drug dealing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You don’t think I’ve got friends in Vice
? Your name came up the other day. So quit playing dumb and use your head. You’re better than that.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I’m not.”

  “Focus on the body shop and building those custom cars,” Ray said. “Because if you keep dealing, you’re gonna end up just like your old man.”

  RJ folded his arms. “I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

  “You came here for whatever the hell we want,” Billy said.

  “So what is it then? You taking me on the swan boats?”

  Ray squinted against the sun. “We want whatever else you’ve got on that kid you saw with Danny the Mule.”

  “You think he killed Danny?”

  “It’s the best theory we’ve got right now,” Ray said. “Which is why I need you to tell us anything else you remember.”

  “I already told you what I know.”

  “I need you to reach deep on this,” Ray said. “Anything you’ve got, even if it seems insignificant.”

  RJ rubbed his chin. “Well, there may be one other thing, but it’ll cost extra.”

  “How much?” Ray asked.

  “A buck fifty.”

  Ray fished out his wallet and peered inside. “All I’ve got is a hundred.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Billy said. “I’m tapped.”

  RJ held out his hand. “You can pay me the difference next time.”

  Ray slid five twenties out of his billfold and waved the money at RJ. “You don’t get anything until I know what I’m buying.”

  “It’s about who fathered the stripper’s kid.”

  Ray handed him the cash. “Go on.”

  “Rumor around The Rock was that Flaherty knocked up the stripper.”

  Ray lifted an eyebrow. “Well, now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Why?” Billy asked. “Because Jack Flaherty banged a stripper? That’s not exactly front-page news.”

  “Not Jack,” RJ said. “Tom.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ray said. “Tom Flaherty?”

  “That’s right,” RJ said. “The honorable Thomas P. Flaherty, mayor of this fine city of Boston.”

  ***

  “Do you believe him?” Billy asked.