The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller

by Derik Cavignano

  ***

  ​Lieutenant Spinonni pulled Ray aside as soon as he arrived at the precinct the next morning. “My office. Now.”

  Ray wasn’t sure if the hyena-like smirk plastered to the lieutenant’s face qualified as a smile, but as he settled into the chair opposite Spinonni’s desk, he decided it probably wasn’t a good sign.

  Spinonni folded his hands and studied Ray. “I want to savor this moment.”

  “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

  “I always knew you were trouble, Hanley. But the captain and chief always gave you the benefit of the doubt. But not this time.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Quit playing dumb, Hanley. You disobeyed a direct order and harassed the mayor. The captain is pissed. He doesn’t even want to talk to you. Which is why I get to do the honors.”

  Ray clenched his hands into fists. The mayor had promised him a name by the afternoon.

  That’s the last time I trust a politician.

  “I’ve been waiting years for this,” Spinonni said, rubbing his hands together. “Detective Hanley, you are hereby ordered to turn in your badge and your gun. You’ve been suspended without pay, effective immediately. And pending the outcome of an internal review, you’ll likely be terminated. So do yourself a favor and dust off that resume. And for the last time, get the hell out of my office.”

  ***

  The first beer felt good going down, so Ray followed it with another. And then another. Later, when it felt like his bladder might burst, he staggered toward the bathroom and stumbled into a barstool, catching the edge of the bar in time to avoid a faceplant.

  He muttered an apology to Quinn’s daytime bartender—Jimmy or Jerry or Johnny—and to the handful of professional drunks sitting hunched over the bar, frowning into their drinks.

  Christ, is that where I’m headed? he thought, catching a glimpse of his haggard reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He needed to pull himself together. Right here. Right now.

  After a visit to the bathroom, his head felt clearer, and he took a seat at the bar and forced himself to drink a few pints of water. By the time he left Quinn’s two bathroom breaks later, he felt certain he could pass a field sobriety test. Not that it mattered, though. Spinonni had confiscated the Explorer and he had to take a cab over to Quinn’s. So now he could add the car to the growing list of things he’d lost.

  Christ, was he turning into Billy? Or Larry?

  And where the hell was Larry, anyway? His mom wasn’t talking, which could either mean Larry was on the run or that Flaherty’s men had coerced her into keeping quiet. For Larry’s sake, he hoped it was the former, but he had his doubts.

  He ambled along Main Street with his fists thrust into his pockets. It was a perfect afternoon for a walk—bright sunshine, low humidity. But with everything on his mind, he couldn’t enjoy it.

  He’d committed career suicide, and for what? Because he was impatient? Because he wanted to run the investigation his own way? Maybe, but also because the captain and the chief didn’t have the balls to do their jobs. All the evidence suggested that Suzie Coleman was alive. Otherwise, they would’ve found her by now since the Artist’s MO was to discard bodies in a sensational fashion in full view of the public—a pattern that also fit the professor’s hanging.

  Maybe, at first, the Artist wanted to frame Jim Coleman for murder as revenge for stealing Suzie away from him. That would explain the bloody bed, the missing body, and the planting of evidence in Coleman’s car. But now that Jim was out of jail with no charges filed, Suzie’s days were probably numbered. Which meant they couldn’t afford to waste time chasing their tails when the mayor was the quickest path to finding the Artist. Maybe Ray was guilty of being brash, but he’d done what was best for the case, so no matter what recommendation the internal review board made about his job, at least he’d stayed true to his values. Whether that paid the bills or not was another story.

  He’d left Quinn’s with no plans other than to wander around the block to clear his head, but his subconscious must’ve had its own agenda because he suddenly realized he was right around the corner from home.

  Michelle was just pulling up to the curb as he reached the front walk, and when Jason and Allie spotted him, they flew out of the car. “Daddy’s home!” They raced into his arms and almost bowled him over.

  “I missed you guys so much.” He hugged them tight, his eyes stinging with the threat of tears.

  “We missed you too, Daddy!”

  Michelle lifted Petey out of the car seat and he toddled over to Ray, each step sending a tremor through his chubby cheeks. “Da-da home!”

  Ray lifted him above his head and flew him around the sidewalk like Superman. “I flying!” Petey squealed, “I flying!”

  He set Petey down on the porch and fumbled in his pocket for the keys. Allie moved in beside him and gave him the stink eye. “I don’t like it when you work so much. Will it be over soon?”

  Michelle joined them on the porch, her arms loaded with the kids’ backpacks, a diaper bag, and her purse. “Sorry, honey,” she said, “but Daddy’s still got a lot more work to do.”

  “Why don’t you guys go inside?” Ray said. He slipped the key into the door and turned the knob, relieved to discover Michelle hadn’t changed the locks.

  After herding the kids inside, Ray pulled the door shut and turned to find Michelle glaring at him with her arms folded across her chest.

  “What are you doing here, Ray?”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “You should’ve called.”

  “You don’t answer your phone.”

  “Send me a text.”

  “You don’t respond to those either.”

  “At least I’d know you were coming.”

  “Come on, Michelle. Are we really going to do this?”

  “Do what?”

  He drew a deep breath. What could he say that wouldn’t piss her off? “I know how angry you must be.”

  “Do you, Ray? Do you really?”

  “What I did was terrible. And I wish I could take it back. But these past couple of days have been the worst days of my life.”

  “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Is that what you’re looking for, Ray? Pity?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I know you hate me right now. And I won’t stand here and tell you that you shouldn’t. I’m sorry for what I did and I hate how it’s changed the way you look at me. But I will do anything—literally anything—for the chance to earn you back.”

  A tear trickled down Michelle’s cheek and she swatted it away. “I don’t know if I can trust you anymore.”

  Her words landed like a sucker punch. “I promise it won’t happen again. Please, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  “It won’t be the same, Ray. It will always be in the back of my mind. Always.”

  “We can go to counseling.”

  “You hate counseling.”

  “I don’t want to lose you, Michelle. I don’t want to break our family apart. That can’t be what you want, is it?”

  But Michelle didn’t answer.

  “Promise me that you won’t give up on us,” he said.

  Michelle drew a shuddering breath, and for a long time didn’t say anything. “I’ll think about it,” she said and reached for the door.

  ***

  Ray said a heart-wrenching goodbye to the kids before heading toward Monument Square, where he’d arranged for Jacob to pick him up after work. As he passed Monument Liquors on his way to the park, he waved to Sam Martinez through the window.

  The last time he’d seen Sam was the night Larry robbed the place, which had been, what, over two weeks ago? A lot had changed since then, and he wished he could go back and undo the damage. But no matter how much mental energy he expended, he could never change the past. And while he could theoretically shape his own future, right now the outlook seemed bleak.

  When he arrived at M
onument Square, he made a conscious effort to clear his mind. He gazed up at the towering obelisk commemorating the Battle of Bunker Hill, which, ironically, stood on Breed’s Hill, where most of the battle had taken place. The granite used to construct the monument had originated from the same Quincy quarries where they’d found Danny the Mule’s mutilated corpse nearly two centuries later. How was that for irony?

  As he reached for his phone to check the time, a spray of granite flew off the monument and struck him on the cheek. An instant later, a tiny hole the size of a .22 caliber bullet appeared in the granite, accompanied by more bits of flying rock. He dropped into a crouch and reached into his sports coat for his missing Glock, but not before a bullet slammed into his Kevlar vest.

  He rolled onto his side with a groan and caught a glimpse of a black-clad figure withdrawing into the trees on the east end of the park. Wincing, Ray staggered to his feet and hurried across the park, charging down the grassy ridge leading toward the ritzy brownstones lining Monument Square. He was unarmed—Spinonni had made sure of it—but the shooter didn’t know that and would be focused on retreat rather than engaging in a firefight.

  So far, his knowledge of the shooter was limited to medium build and black shirt. It’d happened so fast, he never had the chance to register hair color, sex, or ethnicity. Potential suspects ran through his mind—the Artist, Flaherty, Giabatti, the mayor, Darren Boyle. The shooter had used a silencer, but missed the kill shot, so that meant he wasn’t a contract killer. Or at least not a good one.

  Ray scaled the wrought iron fence at the end of the park and scrutinized the street in both directions. Nothing about his surroundings appeared out of the ordinary. The sidewalks bustled with pedestrians headed home from work and no one seemed alarmed, which meant the shooter had likely blended into the crowd and disappeared.

  He walked up and down the block to ensure that he didn’t miss anything, and then headed back to the park to collect the bullet casings. Afterward, he called Billy to tell him what’d happened.

  “Good thing you had on your vest,” Billy said. “You want me to get someone down there?”

  “For what? Other than the casings and the slug in my vest, there’s no evidence and no eyewitnesses. I just wanted to warn you.”

  “You think it’s the Artist?” Billy asked. “Could be he’s trying to take us out before we get too close.”

  “For all we know, it could be the mayor.”

  “That seems too risky for someone in his position.”

  “Why don’t you ask him about it? See if you can get Brendon Taritello’s new name while you’re at it.”

  “What, so I can get suspended too? I’m not risking my pension over this case. I’m not even supposed to be talking to you.”

  “So, you’re just going to roll over, is that it? Let the mayor get away with obstruction of justice? You know it could cost Suzie Coleman her life, don’t you?”

  “I can’t, Ray. My hands are tied.”

  “What’s the matter, Billy? You too old to grow a pair?”

  “Not everything is black and white, Ray. I want to keep my job and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, so screw you for asking.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Jacob stared at Ray from across the front seat and shook his head. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Ray rubbed his stomach and winced. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “But you could’ve been killed.”

  “I could’ve been a lot of things, Jacob.”

  “I don’t understand how you can be so calm.”

  “I don’t waste time worrying about things that didn’t happen.”

  “If only it was that easy.”

  Ray pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you go telling Ma about this. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “I don’t know, little brother. Are you?”

  “You’re crazy enough for both of us.”

  Ray brayed laughter. “Now, ain’t that the truth?”

  “Do you really think you’ll lose your job?”

  “If the mayor comes out clean, then I’d say it’s a strong possibility.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “Then the department can’t afford to fire me. It’ll look like they were on the mayor’s side. People will whisper about corruption.”

  “What are the odds the department goes digging into the mayor’s business?”

  “Not very good.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t worry, little brother, I’ve got a plan. But first I’ll need to borrow your car.”

  ***

  The next morning, Ray met Frank Eastman at the dilapidated Victorian that served as Frank’s private investigator’s office. They sat across from each other at a conference table marred by coffee stains and cigarette burns. Frank cast a sidelong look at Ray, a gnarled toothpick pinched between his lips. “You wanna tell me what you plan to do with this information?”

  “Probably better that you don’t know.”

  Frank slid a sheet of paper across the table. He was a man of few words, yet he communicated a great deal by his expressions, and even just a subtle variation in the twist of his lips yielded intricate differences in the pattern of lines cutting across his face.

  Ray lifted an eyebrow as he examined the page. “Christ, Frank, are you still using a dot-matrix printer?”

  “Can you read it or not?”

  Ray scanned the list of addresses. “Barely.”

  “Not all of those are in the mayor’s name,” Frank said, “but he controls Clover Realty Trust just the same.”

  Ray nodded. “I owe you one.”

  “Second favor in two weeks. Must be desperate times.”

  “Yeah,” Ray said, “something like that. But since I’m here, how about an advance on the next favor?”

  Frank rolled the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “What do you mean?”

  “I need to borrow a gun.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  It looked like a normal suburban home. Beige split-level with wood shingles and a stone chimney running up the left-hand wall. It was set back on a quiet cul-de-sac in West Roxbury, bordering the wooded preserve of Stony Brook Reservation, the nearest neighbor half a football field away.

  Ray stared at the property from the side of the road, studying it through the windshield of Jacob’s Lexus. The longer he examined it, the more flaws he found—flakes of paint peeling from the eaves, the wood beneath dark with rot. A rusted weathervane twirled on the roof, the head of the arrow broken off.

  It was one of the properties owned by the mayor’s trust, and it happened to be located within a mile of both Coleman’s house and the jogging trail where they’d found Finkleton dangling from a tree.

  If Ray’s theory was correct, Taritello had extorted the mayor for a place to stay in addition to a new identity, since he would’ve had to vanish from his previous life and had no job or degree to fall back on. Which meant the charcoal-gray Chevy Silverado parked in the driveway might belong to the Artist. And because it was a Saturday morning, there was a good chance that whoever lived here was still at home.

  He pulled out his phone and drafted a text to Billy.

  Found the Artist. 32 Oak Circle Drive, West Roxbury. Come as soon as you can.

  But instead of sending the message, he locked the phone’s display and killed the car’s engine. He couldn’t afford a mistake, not with his career on the line and not with how he’d left things with Billy. He had to be sure. And that meant confronting whoever lived here.

  After a final check of his Kevlar vest, he climbed out of the Lexus and positioned himself on the left-hand side of the driveway, keeping the Silverado between himself and the house. He crouched down and examined the truck’s tires. Goodyear Wranglers, 265-millimeter. The same make and model as the tracks they’d found on the trail near Finkleton’s body.

  He peered
into the flatbed. Empty. But he’d bet Billy’s pension that it contained forensic evidence that could be traced back to Finkleton. The Artist probably attached the harness in the back of the truck, threw the rope over the branch, and then hoisted him up. Maybe even tied one end of the rope to the trailer hitch to make it easier to lift him.

  A blur of movement caught his eye, and he turned to see a figure approaching from the backyard—Caucasian male, medium build, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. Dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. The man halted at the sight of Ray and did a double take. Despite the distance, something about him struck Ray as familiar, and maybe it was just his imagination, but the man’s shoulders seemed to relax as he came forward.

  “Ray? Is that you?”

  A strange sense of déjà vu washed over Ray, prickling his skin with an electrifying tingle of goose bumps. He suddenly understood how the Artist had succeeded in leaving behind almost no trace evidence.

  He knew this man. Luis Durgin. Doc Death’s forensic autopsy technician.

  As Luis approached, Mr. Buntzman’s words echoed through his mind.

  Check the morgue.

  Maybe the old man wasn’t as senile as they’d thought.

  “What’s going on?” Luis asked. “Is something wrong?”

  Ray fumbled for an excuse to justify his presence. “Do you remember when we found Finkleton hanging in the woods?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “We discovered a fingerprint on the harness used to string him up.”

  Luis flinched at Ray’s lie. “You did?” It was slight, but it was there. And Ray was trained to notice.

  “But it’s not the big break we were hoping for,” Ray said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the print we found was yours.” He let the words sink in, registering the panic on Luis’s face. “Obviously, you must have touched the harness when you zipped up the body bag, so now I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Luis nodded, looking relieved. “Okay, sure.”