“Somewhere we won’t find him. He’s probably halfway to South America by now.”
“Unless he’s holed up in a local safe house, waiting for the heat to die down.”
“He’s a crafty sonofabitch,” Billy said. “He could be anywhere. What else happened while I was out?”
“Clint came back with the refined search for Angie T, but it didn’t help.”
“What about the Puma’s payroll records? Any word from the feds?”
“Dearborn won’t return my calls and Calhoun claims they’ve been backed up since Flaherty went on the lam.”
“Sounds like he’s blowing smoke. Any other developments? Or did you just sit at the precinct and twiddle your thumbs all day?”
Ray gave him the finger. “I drove to Gloucester and followed up on Dean Saunders’s alibi.”
“And?”
“Everyone I talked to vouched for him. On the night of Finkleton’s murder, he attended an AA meeting and then went to a friend’s house to play cards. Nearest I can tell, he left the friend’s house around 1:30 a.m. and went straight home. A neighbor saw him go inside and said she would’ve heard the truck start up if he left again since it’s obnoxiously loud and she’s usually up all hours of the night.”
“What if Saunders took his girlfriend’s VW bug?” Billy said. “He could’ve driven to wherever he was holding Finkleton, switched to a truck, and then headed to Stony Brook Reservation.”
“It’s possible,” Ray said, “but his girlfriend claims Saunders was there for the rest of the night.”
“She could be lying.”
“His cell phone location data corroborates their story.”
“He could’ve left the phone at home before heading out again.”
“True,” Ray said, “but it’s more than an hour drive to Stony Brook. By the time he got there and strung up Finkleton it would be after three in the morning, which seems too late to jibe with Tina’s estimated time of death.”
“It would only be off by a couple hours, which is within the margin for error.”
“My gut says it’s not him, but you’re right—we can’t completely rule him out.”
“What about the background check on The Particle Bean’s manager?” Billy asked.
“Came back squeaky clean. The guy’s a Boy Scout.”
“So what you’re saying is I missed jack shit.”
Ray nodded. “I think the trail’s gone cold.”
“No more posts on deaddumbandbizzare.com?”
“Nothing,” Ray said. “The best we’ve gotten is a handful of calls to the tip line with people claiming to recognize The Suffering of Ages.”
“Let me guess,” Billy said, “the usual kooks?”
“You got it.”
“What about Gary? He come back with anything on the library computers?”
“Not anything we can use.”
Billy drew a deep breath and frowned. “We could hit a few more coffee shops and galleries, see if anyone recognizes the painting.”
“We’ve covered that ground already. It’s a waste of time.”
“You got any better ideas?” Billy asked.
“Yeah, I’d like to have a chat with the mayor.”
“I’m sure the feds have already spoken with him.”
“About Flaherty maybe, but not about the Artist.”
“Spinonni will shit a brick.”
“So we don’t tell him.”
“You don’t think it’ll get back to him?”
“I’ll be very tactful,” Ray said.
“I think it’s a terrible idea.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” Ray said, and turned off at the Government Center exit.
***
Boston City Hall was a concrete monstrosity that appeared to be part beehive, part space invaders mothership, and looked as though it had been relocated—block-by-hideous block—from a former eastern European nation’s communist headquarters.
Ray strode across the sprawling brick courtyard of City Hall Plaza with Billy trailing a half-step behind. “I thought you said this was a bad idea.”
“Not a bad idea, a terrible idea.”
“So why are you following me?”
“Because you’ll never get a meeting without me.”
“Oh yeah,” Ray said, “because you’re such a pillar of society.”
“Don’t be mad just because I’ve got connections.”
Ray smirked. “Connections? We’ll see about that.”
They entered the lobby and waited in line for the metal detector. When it was their turn, Ray handed his ID to the security officer. “Detective Hanley, Boston Police.” He cocked a thumb at Billy. “And of course, Detective Devlin, who I’m sure needs no introduction.”
“You carrying?” the guard asked.
Ray and Billy opened their sports coats to show their guns.
“Just a minute,” the guard said while a colleague verified their credentials. “Alright, you’re clear.”
They proceeded to the fifth floor, which housed a reception area dedicated to the mayor’s office. It had two reception desks and Ray chose the one attended by a bookish brunette with pretty eyes, figuring he had a better chance of charming her than the dour-looking old man at the other desk.
She greeted him with a smile and listened attentively to his spiel. “I’m sorry,” she said when he finished, “but the mayor’s schedule is full. I can put in a request for tomorrow, but I can’t make any promises. You might have better luck coordinating your meeting through the police chief.”
“I would,” Ray said, “but it relates to an investigation that’s time sensitive, and sometimes the police bureaucracy is even worse than the government bureaucracy.”
Billy muscled up beside Ray and leaned his forearms on the desk. “Could you just tell the mayor that Billy Devlin needs five minutes of his time? We grew up together, he knows me.”
The receptionist did a poor job of hiding her skepticism, but she passed the message along to one of the mayor’s aides, a sandy-haired ex-frat boy type in an expensive suit. The aide disappeared through a door behind the reception desk. When he returned a minute later, he motioned to a leather sofa in the waiting area. “Have a seat, detectives. The mayor will see you as soon as his meeting ends.”
Billy planted his hands on his hips and stared at Ray. “I think someone owes me an apology.”
***
The mayor’s office featured floor-to-ceiling windows that offered stunning views of Faneuil Hall and the yawning blue vista of Boston Harbor. The interior walls were drab by contrast, constructed of slate-gray concrete that seemed better suited to a prison than the office of the city’s most powerful man. The mayor was seated behind a mahogany desk with a hand-carved seal of the city, and as Ray and Billy entered the room, the mayor rose to greet them.
“Billy Devlin, how the hell are you?”
“Doing good,” Billy said, crossing the room to shake the mayor’s hand. “I’d ask how you’re doing, but shit, you’re the mayor. I don’t even know what to call you anymore—your honor, your highness, Mr. Mayor.”
“Just Tom,” the mayor said, flashing them a grin. “Still just the same old kid from Southie.”
Yeah, Ray thought, except now you live on Beacon Hill.
Billy gestured to Ray. “This is my partner, Detective Ray Hanley.”
The mayor shook Ray’s hand. “You keeping Billy in line?” he asked, regarding him with the same penetrating gaze as his mobster brother.
“It’s a full-time job,” Ray said, returning the mayor’s squeeze with equal force.
“Have a seat,” the mayor said, motioning to a pair of leather wing chairs opposite his desk. “I’m afraid I can only spare five minutes.”
“That’s all we need,” Billy said. “I’ll cut right to it. We’re investigating a serial killer, and right now our primary suspect is the son of a former stripper we know only as Angie T.”
“What’s this got to do with
me?”
“The stripper used to frequent Jack’s bar years ago,” Billy said.
“What makes you think I would know anything about that? You know I don’t have anything to do with my brother.”
Billy shrugged. “We were hoping you might know of her through the grapevine. I don’t need to tell you how word gets around in Southie, especially back in the day.”
The mayor scowled. “If talk about Jack doesn’t relate to throwing his ass in jail, then I tune it out. You understand? My brother’s dead to me.”
“Look,” Ray said, “I understand why the question might make you defensive—”
“I’m not getting defensive.”
“—but your brother wouldn’t tell us,” Ray continued, “and now he’s a fugitive.”
“Why don’t you ask his associates?”
“We have,” Ray said, “but they’re not a very talkative bunch. Also, none of them is rumored to have fathered the stripper’s son.”
The mayor folded his arms. “I’m sure she’s not the first stripper Jack knocked up.”
“Actually,” Ray said, “we don’t believe Jack is the father.”
“Then who is?”
“Well, Mr. Mayor,” Ray said, “that would be you.”
***
Later that afternoon, Ray and Billy found themselves sitting in a much less luxurious office, one that was devoid of windows and permeated with the unsettling aroma of tuna fish wrapped in sweat socks.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Lieutenant Spinonni barked.
Ray and Billy exchanged a glance. “We just asked the mayor a couple of simple questions,” Ray said.
Spinonni’s face flushed. “What gave you the idea that it was okay to talk to the mayor?”
“First of all,” Ray said, “anyone can request an audience with the mayor. And second, Billy knows him from when they were kids.”
“I don’t care if Billy and the mayor held hands during the neighborhood circle jerk. You violated department policy and pissed off the mayor. And maybe you’re having trouble understanding cause and effect, but when you piss off the mayor, you piss off the chief. And that makes me look like I can’t control my men, which pisses me off.”
Ray folded his arms and shifted in his seat. “We’ve got a lead that the mayor might be the father of a serial killer, and neither the chief nor the captain acted on it. The way I see it, we did them a favor by playing bad cop with the mayor.”
“A favor? You got a secondhand tip from a source with a questionable track record and you think the department’s going to stake its reputation on that? Next time, try corroborating a fact or two before asking the chief to commit political suicide. Are we clear?”
Billy nodded, but Ray went on as if he hadn’t heard. “He lied,” Ray said. “As soon as we brought up Angie T, the mayor’s eyes just about popped out of his head.”
“You’re missing the point,” Spinonni said. “We’re not here to discuss the case; we’re here to discuss disciplinary action. And my recommendation is for a two-week suspension without pay, which I personally think is getting off easy. But for reasons I don’t understand, the chief wanted to let you go with a warning.”
Ray breathed a sigh of relief. Two weeks without pay would’ve been like a donkey kick to the wallet. Private school tuition was stretching his paycheck to the max.
Spinonni leaned across the desk and fixed them with a menacing stare. “Before you two run out of here celebrating, be advised that if you pull something like this again, you can kiss your jobs goodbye. That’s a promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Ray sensed something was off as soon as he set foot on his porch. Normally, when he arrived home at this hour, the TV in the front room would be blaring the latest seizure-inducing glut of cartoons, and either Allie or Jason would be bickering or Petey would be crying. And that was on a good day.
But right now, everything was quiet. And with Flaherty still at large, he found it unsettling. He glanced into the street where Michelle had parked her Corolla beneath the ancient oak that was constantly dropping pollen or acorns or leaves. In the winter, he swore it dropped sticks just to piss him off. So that meant the family was home, but the house was serene. Which might make sense in some households, but not in his.
He turned the key in the lock and stepped inside. The only sign of life was Mr. Snuggles, who lay on the arm of the couch like a narcoleptic sentinel, raising one eye half-mast before deciding Ray wasn’t worth the trouble.
As Ray closed the door and set the keys on the foyer table, Sparky bounded downstairs with his tongue lolling. When he reached Ray’s feet, he spun around in spastic circles, unable to decide whether he wanted to be petted, picked up, or chased. Ray bent down and scratched Sparky behind the ears. “What’s the matter, boy? Where is everyone?”
A moment later, Michelle stormed into the family room waving a manila envelope in the air. “Care to explain this, Ray?”
But instead of handing him the envelope, she smacked him across the face with it. She hit him three times before he managed to wrestle it out of her hands.
A picture slid out of the envelope during the scuffle and glided to the floor between them. In it, Ray’s head was tilted back in ecstasy and Tina was on her knees with her lips pursed around him. Ray snatched the picture off the floor and shoved it back inside the envelope, as if covering the image could somehow erase the deed.
“How could you, Ray?”
He laid a hand on her shoulder but she slapped it away.
“Don’t you touch me! Don’t you dare!”
He’d only seen that look in her eyes once before, and that was when the neighborhood bully sucker-punched Jason at the playground. He never imagined the same horrified expression would one day be directed at him.
“Let me explain.”
“Explain what, Ray? I think these pictures are pretty self-explanatory, don’t you?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Really, Ray? Is it a new way of performing the Heimlich?”
“Michelle, please—”
“Shut up, Ray. Just shut up! How long has this been going on?”
“It was just that one time, I swear.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? Like one time doesn’t count?”
“I pushed her off me. It didn’t go any further than that.”
“Give me a break, Ray. It doesn’t look like you put up much of a fight.”
“I told her to stop, that I was happily married.”
Michelle slapped his face. “Were happily married, Ray. Were!” She stalked into the bedroom, retrieved a prepacked duffle bag, and shoved it into his chest. “Get out!”
“Michelle, wait.”
“Go! Before the kids get back from my mom’s.”
“Please, just listen.”
“What makes you think I’ll believe a word you say?”
“I made a huge mistake. I’m sorry.”
Michelle pushed him toward the front door and herded him onto the porch.
“Just give me a chance to work this out. It’ll never happen again, I prom—”
She slammed the door in his face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Lily Reynolds heard a tinkling of glass, followed by the shuffle-stomp of footsteps. She barely had time to sit up in bed and slip on her glasses before a man appeared in her doorway, standing in the shadows and regarding her with a leering grin.
For a moment, she was paralyzed, unable to draw the bedsheet over her frayed nightgown. She’d heard enough stories of home invasions to know the intruders sometimes raped old ladies, so there was a chance that this could be more than just a robbery.
“Take whatever you want,” she croaked, “just don’t hurt me.”
The man in the doorway tilted his head, as if considering her offer. “We’re not here for your money, Mrs. Reynolds. And as long as you cooperate, we won’t harm you.”
“What do you want?” She
was afraid of the answer, but even more afraid of the silence. She drew a shuddering breath and tried to slow her racing heart.
“Let’s move into the kitchen, shall we, Mrs. Reynolds? And do us all a favor and grab a robe. No one wants to see your saggy old tits.”
Lily climbed out of bed and draped the robe over her shoulders, her body trembling as she followed the man past his hulking associate.
The man switched on the kitchen light and motioned for her to sit down, making no attempt to hide his face and leaving her to wonder if that was a good sign or a bad one. She guessed him to be in his late forties or early fifties, although he lacked the typical softness of middle age and carried himself with the brutal confidence of a man who hurt people for a living. His associate was twice his size, but considerably younger and had a buzz cut paired with a shaggy goatee.
“What do you want?” Lily asked, although now that the fog of sleep had dissipated she had a feeling she might already know.
“I’d like to talk about your son.”
“What about him?”
“Larry and I have business to discuss, but I’m afraid he’s done a disappearing act.”
Lily shook her head. “I don’t know where he is.”
“I’d like very much to speak with him, Mrs. Reynolds. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
Lily shifted her gaze to the hallway. After her husband had passed, she bought a gun for protection and kept it in an old shoe box in the bedroom closet. If she could make an excuse to go into the bedroom, she might be able to shoot her way out of her current predicament and solve yet another one of Larry’s problems.
“If you’re thinking about running,” the man said, “I wouldn’t advise it.”
Lily’s eight-year-old tabby cat padded into the kitchen and rubbed herself against the man’s leg.
“What do we have here?” He scooped the cat into his arms and stroked her head. “Now, isn’t she a pretty kitty? What’s her name?”
Lily swallowed the lump in her throat. “Muffin.”
The man scratched Muffin beneath the chin and the tabby tilted her head and purred like a motorboat. “What do you think, Muffin? Is your mama telling the truth about Larry?”
The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller Page 23
