The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1)

by Lichtenberg, Fred;

  He jabs an index finger into his chest. “He fucked with mine.”

  Wayne’s truth serum is confusing me. “You hardly knew the guy,” I say truthfully.

  “Oh, I knew him all right,” he snaps. “Thought he was better than me. Telling me my sex life wasn’t worth a shit.” Wayne’s eyes drop to his drink, and he looks as though he’s about to cry. Then he recovers. “That crap he wrote in his column about guys who couldn’t get women in small towns. I knew who he was writing about.”

  Another paranoid victim.

  “And all the time,” he continues, “the bastard was screwing everyone he could get his hands on.” Wayne blinks hard, looks to me for sympathy. “It ain’t fair, Hank.”

  “Fair he could or that you couldn’t?”

  Wayne scowls. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  I shrug. “Nothing. But it’s not like he had a normal relationship with these women. They were married.” I pause, spread my hands. “Hell, Hunter obviously couldn’t find anyone single either.”

  He ignores my comparison and says, “Yeah, well just the same, he taunted me.” Wayne lowers his eyes to the floor. “With her.”

  I remain silent, take another sip of beer, and wonder about Wayne’s sudden infatuation with Sheryl Murphy. “You talk to Paddy lately?” I finally ask.

  He belches. “’Bout what?”

  “Them. He told you about the affair?”

  Wayne almost falls out of his chair. “Shit, no. I told you, I already knew.” He leans back in his tattered La-Z-Boy and tries futilely to lift his legs.

  “Then how did you find out?”

  A puzzled expression crosses his face.

  “Sheryl and Hunter. If Paddy didn’t tell you, who did?”

  That registers, and Wayne helps himself to a mischievous grin. “I’m a cop, remember? I know everything that goes on in this town.”

  Wayne’s hubris makes me uncomfortable. I wonder how many more dark secrets Wayne has been keeping to himself. I let him continue.

  “Knew about that slut Jackie Hopkins. Don’t care much ’bout that one, though.”

  I nod. “Everybody knew about Jackie and Hunter after Peter killed himself,” I say. “Besides, you’re assuming that because you saw her in one of Hunter’s paintings.”

  He gives me an impish grin. “I knew about them before.”

  “Kept it to yourself, I see.”

  “Hey, it’s my fantasy, Hank. Besides, it ain’t no crime.”

  “Sheryl a fantasy, too?” I push.

  He jabs a finger at me. “You leave her out of this!”

  “Easy, Wayne,” I say defensively. “You just said they were part of your fantasy.”

  “Not her, dammit! She was clean.”

  I lean back in the chair, waiting for my deputy to continue his fantasy story, but he tips his head back and closes his eyes.

  “You called her a slut before,” I say, my voice elevating, trying to keep Wayne awake.

  Wayne struggles. “I was just blowing off steam.”

  “But you liked her, right?”

  “We had fun at the bar, talked a lot. She was always kidding around with me.”

  Wayne was obviously hooked on Sheryl and misinterpreted her waitress demeanor for something more. It’s sad, longing for a relationship and having to create an illusion out of a friendly gesture. But that was Wayne, lonely and desperate. Ironically, in the end, Sheryl was as desperate about Hunter.

  “But she wasn’t interested in you, Wayne. She was interested in Hunter.”

  That wakens him. “That prick. He’s the reason she’s dead,” he says, slapping the arm of his chair.

  Wayne was probably right. “That’s what we need to find out.”

  “Thought he was a stud, that Hunter. Woulda fucked the whole town if he had the chance.”

  He did, and still is. “How’d you get the scoop on Hunter?” I probe.

  Wayne scratches his head, then extends his hands like a preacher. “Like I told you, Hank. I’m a cop. I got my ways.”

  Wayne is the type who shouldn’t drink. He gets obnoxious and mouths off a lot, bringing out his true feelings. At one office Christmas party, he got plastered and started berating people. The next day, he had no idea what he had said.

  Wayne lifts his heavy eyes up at me. “Sometimes I watched them go to his place. They sure weren’t going for therapy,” he snorts, then makes a circle with one hand and impales it with an index finger.

  I let a few moments lapse. I can’t let Wayne fall asleep before asking the burning question. “Besides Sheryl and Jackie, who else did you watch go into Hunter’s house?”

  Wayne’s expression changes, becomes more serious. When he doesn’t answer, I say, “Wayne, this is an investigation, for Chrissake!”

  He rubs his eyes, tries to focus. “Hank, I don’t remember.”

  I leap out of my chair, grab him by the collar, and jerk him out of his seat. “Goddamn it! Who else did you see?”

  “Susan, okay?” He tries to free himself, but my grip is too tight. “I didn’t want to tell you,” he cries.

  I let him go, sending his portly body sliding back into his chair.

  Wayne reaches for the bottle of vodka and takes a long swallow. “Coulda been innocent,” he says, wiping his mouth.

  I stare down at my pathetic deputy. It finally all comes together: The painting, the journal, the truth.

  “I figured you knew about them on account of you staying here,” he tells me.

  I wait a few seconds, then take the bottle out of his hand. “You ever see Paddy enter Hunter’s house?”

  Wayne doesn’t respond.

  “Well?” I demand. “Do you know something?”

  “Thought he could get away with it,” he mumbles.

  “Paddy?”

  Wayne’s eyes flutter slightly; his hand smacks the shot glass off the table.

  “Wayne, for God’s sake, did Paddy kill Hunter?” I grab at his frayed shirt collar, but he doesn’t respond. I let go of him, watching his body go limp. Why hadn’t Wayne told me about Hunter’s escapades before? “It’s my fantasy,” he told me. Obviously, Wayne wanted to keep those fantasies to himself.

  I pace the room like a caged animal. Sometimes when he was sitting around the office, if Wayne wasn’t engaged in some girly magazine, he would doodle, usually sketching small pets. But occasionally, I’d catch him sketching something X-rated, though he wasn’t as skillful as Hunter. Maybe while Hunter and his women were enjoying the lustful pleasures of life, Wayne was skulking about in his car or hiding behind an oak tree creating his own repertoire. Maybe he included a sketch of Paddy minus the pleasure.

  I work my way through the house, tripping over shoes, clothes, and girly magazines, but I don’t find any of his doodling. I check Wayne’s car, including his trunk, then I go back inside and stand over my friend, who is out cold and snoring like a baby. I’ll let him sleep tonight, but tomorrow Wayne has some explaining to do.

  My eyes, which I’m certain are bloodshot, are gazing up at Wayne’s ceiling, which is in dire need of a paint job. My deputy is snoring incessantly in his La-Z-Boy, where I left him last night, filled with angst. Mine, not his.

  My body, aching throughout, struggles off the couch. My head is pounding, and I only consumed one beer. Not like my friend here. Wayne would pay for his imbibing later.

  I trudge out of the house with a stale cherry Pop-Tart that I found in Wayne’s near-empty pantry. I don’t have time to make coffee, so if I’m lucky, Susan will have already brewed a pot, though I’m inclined to believe she might pour it over my head.

  As I approach my driveway, I realize the paperboy is either unusually late or Susan has already picked up the paper. Considering the kid’s impeccable delivery service, I guess that I might not be the first to break Sheryl’s murder to Susan.

  By now, my wife will be awake, out of the shower, and cranking up the coffeemaker. It’s a workday, and as the head teller at Eastpoint Saving
s and Loan, Susan will arrive ahead of the other tellers.

  Standing outside our kitchen door, I feel like a Peeping Tom as I watch my wife sipping her coffee, indulging herself for a few minutes before getting dressed. It’s a ritual: shower, coffee with the newspaper. Then Susan prepares her lunch before getting dressed. A few years back, the ritual might have included a morning romp, but that has long been left out of our daily routine. Susan’s eyes are fixed on the refrigerator, the newspaper sitting next to her unopened.

  It’s still my house, but I give a courtesy knock, then enter. Susan doesn’t turn her head. I’d give a hundred dollars for her thoughts.

  “Morning,” I say, starting out with small pleasantries.

  Susan ignores me, her eyes burning the refrigerator.

  I sit down opposite her, obstructing her view of the white GE refrigerator. She blinks but continues her hollow stare, her face pale and somber. Makeup will certainly be necessary today. My wife’s bathrobe is slightly opened, exposing her small but firm breasts. She catches me looking and closes the top as though I’m some slimeball trying to steal a peek. “We gotta talk,” I tell her.

  Still no reaction.

  “It’s about Sheryl.”

  I get the look that begs not this again, so I give her a few moments.

  “What about her?” she finally asks. “That she was involved with John Hunter? Okay, you win, I already knew. She was in love with him. Satisfied?”

  “Sheryl’s dead.”

  She blinks hard. “That’s not funny.”

  “She was shot last night out at the beach. I’m sorry. I know she was your best friend—”

  Susan glances over at the paper. “Please tell me you’re kidding, Hank.”

  I slide out of my chair and stand over my wife. “Sheryl was supposed to meet me.”

  Susan looks up. “What do you mean, meet you? Like for a drink or something?”

  “She was going to tell me everything she knew about Hunter. About the investigation.”

  Susan suddenly bolts for the bathroom. In a matter of seconds, primal cries echo throughout the house, then vomiting, then moans.

  I rush to my wife’s side, find her on her knees.

  “Oh, Sheryl!” she cries.

  I stroke her forehead and remove some hair from her clammy face.

  “Why?” she whispers.

  I don’t have any concrete answers for her. “Did she mention anything to you? Threats?”

  She shakes her head slowly.

  “I took Paddy to see her last night. He really loved her.”

  In a hoarse whisper, she says, “Sheryl didn’t love him anymore. She loved—”

  “Hunter,” I finish. “But he dumped her for someone else. Who do you think that was, Susan?”

  My wife stiffens, then pushes me away. “I know what you’re suggesting. How could you, at a time like this?”

  “I have an eyewitness, for God’s sake!”

  “You have blood on your hands, Hank. You got my friend killed!” With raw energy, Susan shoves me against the door, my back feeling like it’s snapped. “Get out of my life!”

  I place my hands up in defeat and back out of the bathroom as though Susan is holding a gun to my head. Glare from her bloodshot eyes suddenly widens as her body trembles violently. She grabs her stomach, screams in pain, then drops to the floor before I have a chance to catch her.

  My wife is a bloody mess. The paramedics are strapping an oxygen mask over her face and wheeling her out of the house. I’m numb, but I must say somewhat relieved that Hunter is finally out of Susan’s body.

  She will never forgive me for her miscarriage, I’m thinking, as my car weaves behind the ambulance. As for my marriage, it’s dead.

  After being assured that Susan is out of danger, I leave the hospital and drive around with no particular place to go. My heart no longer races to find Hunter’s killer. He has caused more damage to this town than anyone else I know. Let the investigation die, they told me. They were right.

  Sheryl, on the other hand, was a good person. I owe it to her to find her killer. As a cop, I’m obligated to find Hunter’s, too. Right now, he will have to wait.

  My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the car radio. “Just heard about Susan. She okay?”

  It’s Kate. “She’s out of danger.”

  “Thank God. Keep me posted.”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, an Olivia Patterson just called you.”

  I reach in the back of my brain and try to retrieve the name. “Hidden Island?”

  “Right. Says she needs to talk to you ASAP.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “You might want to ask her,” Kate says, then rattles off the number.

  “Thanks. Anything else?”

  Kate proceeds to tell me that Wayne showed up late looking like hell and that he must have had a bout with the bottle or something. “Been cranky and drinking a lot of water.”

  “He say anything?”

  “Yeah. He complained there wasn’t any coffee left. Guy’s got balls. Who does he think I am, his mother?”

  I assure Kate that she is too good-looking to be his mother. Besides, his mother is dead.

  “Yeah, well just the same, I can’t wait till he makes his rounds and leaves me alone.”

  “Tell him I need to see him later.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  Crossing the narrow drawbridge from the mainland to Hidden Island is a transformation in wealth and time. Affluence drips off the maple trees like golden sap. There are only about thirty houses on the entire island, and each one is worth at least three million dollars. Olivia Patterson’s digs probably cost more. A long private driveway leads to a four-car garage that allows my Crown Victoria to squeeze in between a Mercedes and some exotic car, whose name I can’t pronounce.

  Evidently Olivia has been waiting for me, because the moment I emerge from my car, the front door swings open and a woman in her mid-thirties appears, her lithe body ensconced in a Victoria’s Secret negligee that’s snapped on at the bottom. I stop. The barefoot goddess smiles, then lifts her chest, revealing perfect silicon breasts and nipples that stand at attention behind Victoria’s satin armor. The rich have a strange way of greeting people.

  Olivia stands around five-seven in spiked heels and looks as though she’s about to participate as Kiki the Maid in a soft porno flick.

  “You must be Chief Reed,” she says in a voice that must have been trained for seduction.

  I’d better be, or Olivia made herself up for the wrong guy, although my identity is pretty apparent from my uniform, minus the hat, and the police car with its yellow and blue Eastpoint insignia sitting in her driveway. “Hi,” is about all I can offer.

  “I’m Olivia. Please come in.”

  She turns and disappears inside. I follow, close the door behind me, and marvel at the opulence. I’m thinking that Olivia’s husband must be a Gatsby descendent as I pass the living room, its twenty-foot windows providing an expansive view of the bay.

  The house is quiet, which doesn’t surprise me. Nor does it take my dull brain very long to understand why Olivia invited me over, why the teddy, and why there are two drinks in her hands. One of Hunter’s paintings was of a sexy Olivia in some sort of bondage outfit, a nurse’s uniform, and holding a whip or some other accessory item, ready to rock on Hunter. I must say Hunter hadn’t done her justice with his paint strokes; Olivia Patterson is exceedingly more beautiful in the flesh.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask, businesslike.

  She appears confused by my question. But then a light bulb must have turned on in her head. “Oh, everything is fine. I mean in the house, anyway. William and I just returned from Europe. Been there a month. Great vacation. Poor William, he had to return sooner. Business.”

  Right. Poor William.

  Olivia giggles, then extends her hand with a glass. “Sherry. Or should I say Jerez. From Spain.”

  “Thanks, but I’m on d
uty.”

  She looks genuinely disappointed and sets the glass down on a Bombay chest. Then, with her glass, she makes a circular motion with her finger, allowing it to whistle. She dips her index finger in her drink, pulls it out slowly, and then suggestively, with the same finger, Olivia points to a Chippendale chair. “Please have a seat.” She hesitates. “Do I call you Chief Reed?”

  “The town calls me Hank or Sheriff. Your choice.” I slide into the chair, check my watch, and give Olivia ten minutes. “May I ask why you asked me out here?”

  She sits opposite me, fidgets a bit. “Like I said, I just returned from Europe and thought I’d do some shopping in town.”

  I glance furtively at my watch. Nine minutes.

  “To make a long story short—don’t you hate that cliché?—anyway, I heard that John Hunter was murdered.”

  “Correct,” I say, watching her do a cross-the-leg thing, and I lose track of time. “About a week ago,” I tell her.

  “I hear a few things were taken from his house.”

  I sit up straight. “Taken?”

  Olivia wasn’t being accusatory, and she must have seen the blank look on my face. “The paintings, Hank.”

  I settle down. “Right, the paintings.”

  “That’s the rumor, anyway. Must be old by now.” Olivia smiles softly, takes a sip of her sherry, then places it on a glass table. I watch her get up, watch her sexy moves, then watch her approach me. She kneels down between my worn leather boots and holds onto my knees for support, staring into my crotch. “I’d like to get mine back,” she breathes, in a heavy dose of Jerez that is drifting in my direction.

  My body stirs, not so much from the way she says it but rather from the way Olivia’s hands are touching me. I swallow hard and forget she’s got about eight minutes left. “Evidence,” I force out.

  Olivia doesn’t stop. Her long, painted fingernails work on my thighs. As I attempt to close my legs, she clamps them with her arms. “I’ll show you a few things I learned in Paris. Great ideas, those French.”

  I’m about to throw in all the paintings and the eight-cylinder police car sitting outside, but stop. “Can’t do, Olivia,” I grunt. “Evidence,” I repeat.