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

by Lichtenberg, Fred;

  Her head drops to my lap and starts foraying into my unprotected area. I extend my arm, wondering if I can get out of here in…four minutes. I touch her soft, perfumed hair, which is covering the lower part of my anatomy, then carefully ease her up. “I better go.”

  Olivia lifts her head, tosses back her head, and moans. “Hank, please. If he finds out about that stupid painting, I’m history.”

  Right, painting. She should have taken a course in fidelity. I stand up, fix the crease in my pants, and say, “Look, if I don’t have to show it, I won’t. But I can’t promise anything right now.”

  Olivia nods but apparently has something else in mind. She crosses the room and stops at a hand-painted olive and gold secretary, opens a drawer, and removes a check that was evidently already filled out. “I couldn’t get enough cash on such short notice,” she says. “But maybe you want to consider this before you say no.” She waves the check in my face. All I can see is a bunch of zeros.

  I grab her hand. “Olivia,” I say firmly. “You don’t want to do this. Let’s pretend I was never here and you never had that check in your hand. Okay?”

  She gives me an anxious glance. “I’m scared, Hank. I don’t want to give this place up.”

  Hell of a time to think about consequences. “You’ll work it out, Olivia,” I say and start for the door.

  “He was a nice guy, John was,” she calls out after me. “Too bad about him, huh?”

  I could have provided her with a better assortment of adjectives to describe John Hunter. “Nice” wouldn’t have been one of them.

  The stationhouse is generally quiet this time of the day, but when I return from the lovely Olivia Patterson I find Kate, Minnie Taylor, our part-time bookkeeper, and my deputy Charlie engaged in spirited discourse. When they see me, the conversation comes to an abrupt halt. We exchange smiles, but the warm greetings I’m used to are missing.

  “Hey, Hank,” Charlie says, then checks his watch. “Guess I better do my rounds.”

  Minnie slides her chair over to her desk and jumps on the computer without saying a word. Kate offers me a benign smile.

  “Something wrong?” I ask.

  Kate opens her desk drawer, removes an official-looking document, and with an anxious glance says, “Someone slipped it under our door.”

  I take the document from her and review it with suspicious eyes. It’s slightly wrinkled but appears to be an election petition that calls for a change in the “top law enforcement position,” a fancy term for my job. “Two murders are enough!” it begins. “Could the chief of police have stopped the murder of our beloved Sheryl Murphy? Petition a change. Demand a new election and make this town crime-free again. A vote of confidence is a vote for Wayne Andrews.”

  At first, I snicker. That wouldn’t be my deputy Wayne Andrews, would it? Then I consider the impact of this frivolous indictment and ask, “What the hell’s going on?”

  Kate offers a shrug. “You better ask Wayne.”

  I feel my face flush. “I don’t understand.”

  Never at a loss for words, Kate doesn’t add anything more than, “I really don’t know, Hank.”

  “He mention anything this morning?”

  She shakes her head no.

  I crush the paper and throw it in the trash. “That’s where it belongs,” I say, and storm into my office, slamming the door behind me.

  As if the petition isn’t bad enough, I glance out the window and see Norman Strong standing outside his candy store handing out copies of the petition like gumdrops. His wife is probably inside sucking down milk shakes. Great loyalty, Norm! I’ll never buy another fucking candy bar from you as long as I live! What the hell is he worried about, anyway? Hunter wasn’t into the Rubenesque type.

  This petition business isn’t about murder. It’s about fear. Fear of being associated with John Hunter. And fear that Eastpoint will be regarded as just another Peyton Place. People here don’t give two shits that Hunter was killed. But they do care about Sheryl’s murder. And one can only speculate about the actions of an enraged husband.

  I know this. I feel it. But I can’t prove it. Sheryl wasn’t raped, there were no signs of a struggle, and nothing was taken from her purse. When I reached the bar the night Sheryl was murdered, Paddy was nowhere in sight. When he showed up from the back of the bar, he told me he’d needed a break from the smoke. What bothers me is that if Paddy’s hair was wet, how come his clothes were dry?

  According to one witness, Sheryl left the bar around five-thirty and got into her car alone. On a good day, it would have taken her twenty minutes to reach the beach from the bar. The rain would have added another ten, which meant Sheryl and I would have arrived within minutes of each other. That didn’t happen.

  Kate interrupts my thoughts. “Sorry for the intrusion, Hank. You better read this.” She approaches tentatively, waving a copy of the Eastpoint Times, and places it in my hands.

  I stare at the headlines. More venom. Only this time, Wayne and his henchmen are making accusatory statements, the kind that go beyond political advancement. Wayne wants blood!

  I glance up at my secretary, feeling embarrassment. “You don’t believe this, I hope.”

  “’Course not. But it’s damaging.”

  “It’s bullshit!”

  “It’s still damaging, and you’re going to have to address it,” she says evenly.

  “I’m gonna break Wayne’s neck,” I huff. “Damn traitor.”

  “Hank, you don’t wanna say things like that right now.”

  “Where the hell is he?” I demand.

  My verbal assault on that good-for-nothing deputy causes Kate to resort to hand motions to slow me down. I must look like I’m about to explode. When she gets my attention, she tells me Wayne took the rest of the day off, that he wasn’t feeling well.

  I snort. “Right. He’s probably out campaigning.”

  Kate gives me a tender pat on my arm. “You don’t have to convince me that what they’re writing is crap.”

  “Yeah, well no one in this town oughta doubt my loyalty. This is the thanks I get.”

  “People appreciate what you’ve done for them in the past,” Kate assures me. “This is different. They’re upset about the you-know-what that’s locked up in the closet.” She’s referring to the paintings, not the journal. That’s my secret.

  “Don’t they realize I’m not trying to hurt anybody? Besides, they should have never found out about those damn paintings in the first place. I bet that was Wayne’s doing,” I charge. “It’s nobody’s business. It’s police business!”

  Kate nods in sympathy, realizes I need to be alone, and leaves. I go back to the newspaper and address all of the allegations in my head. My hands are trembling with anger. I shove it to one side like it’s venom, then pick up the phone and call Troy Grayson, the Times editor.

  “What kind of bullshit are you printing these days, Troy?”

  After a moment of hesitation, Grayson says, “Gee, Hank, you know we only print the truth. I was just stating the facts as I saw them.”

  I roll my eyes. “What facts? That I’m not doing my job? How would you know? You’ve got your nose stuck in print all day.”

  “Hank,” he starts in a conciliatory tone, “I wouldn’t print anything if it wasn’t confirmed. You know that.”

  “Right. And where did you get your information from?” I demand.

  “My sources.”

  “And of course, you won’t reveal Wayne’s name.”

  “Correct.”

  “So it was Wayne, then?”

  “You said it, not me. I protect my sources.”

  “Your sources. For Chrissake, the only major stories you write about are weddings and funerals!”

  “Whatever, Hank. Look, you have every right to debunk any story you can prove false. Any fabrication.”

  “You bet I will! And then I’m gonna sue your ass.” I slam the phone down, open the window, and stick my head out in search of air.

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nbsp; Shit! People are huddling in the middle of the street, copies of that damned petition waving in their hands, and staring up at me, their accused.

  I shut the window and charge out of my office. “I gotta get out of here,” I tell Kate, and I start for the back door.

  “Hank,” Kate calls after me, “I’ve got Maggie Hunter on the line. She just heard about it in the paper. You wanna say hello.”

  I wave her off. “Too busy. I have to find Sheryl Murphy’s killer.”

  Salty’s parking lot is empty. Paddy must have closed on account of the funeral arrangements. Very appropriate.

  I pull around the back and park. I start drum-rolling on the steering wheel, deciding whether to get a search warrant.

  I stop the drum-roll and step out of the car. Paddy doesn’t have an alarm system, so with the help of my nightstick, I smash a basement window. Years ago, I might have been able to slip through an area like this without much trouble. Problem is, I gained a few pounds since I joined the force. Nevertheless, I work my way through the window, gaining access to the basement where the unpleasant mix of humidity and rotten beer greets me.

  Stepping over Paddy’s stock of liquor, I notice there aren’t any cases of Jack Daniel’s. I guess there isn’t any reason to carry that brand anymore.

  I climb the narrow wooden steps that lead to a small private office; an exposed light bulb hangs from the ceiling, and the light is on. I remove a handkerchief from my pocket and open a closet door. That’s where I find a half-dozen pair of khakis and a box of white shirts with Salty’s brown logo engraved on them. Paddy’s wet hair and dry clothes now make sense.

  I close the closet door and cross the room to a small wooden desk with two drawers. Inside one, I find a bunch of invoices, Paddy’s business checkbook, and some office supplies. The other drawer is stuck, so I give it a yank. When it doesn’t give, I get on my knees, grab the handle, and pull as hard as I can. The drawer flies off its rollers and onto the floor.

  Great! I’m crawling on the floor retrieving a chewed-up black pen, loose paper clips, and rubber bands. I’m about to dump Paddy’s supplies back in the drawer, then stop. At least a dozen envelopes wrapped in a rubber band are still inside. I trade the supplies for the envelopes, then sit on the floor, slide the top letter out from under the rubber band, and begin reading. “My love, I can’t stand being away from you. Your smile makes me sing but I have to wait, wait till I’m finished working at this boring place.” It goes on with more love, a little fire, and it’s signed “Sheryl.” It’s not dated. I place the letter back in the envelope and read the next one, then the next.

  All of the letters are similar in tone, and all end with, “Soon, my love. I’ll be with you forever.” Paddy must have discovered Sheryl’s deepest thoughts. Only they weren’t addressed to him.

  In some perverse way, I can identify with Paddy. He must have agonized over her love and affection for Hunter. I’m wondering if my wife wrote to Hunter with as much passion as Sheryl.

  I open the bottom envelope, which is addressed, “To Whom It May Concern.” It doesn’t start off like the others. In fact, it isn’t a love letter at all; it’s a typed suicide note. A joint suicide pact?

  I rub my eyes. Hunter and Sheryl? I remember Maggie commenting about the voice on Hunter’s answering machine. It sounded desperate, she said. Maggie didn’t know it, but that voice belonged to Sheryl. Did Sheryl suddenly get cold feet and try to reach her lover? To tell him they shouldn’t go through with it? But if she wanted to save him, why not say, “John, don’t drink the bourbon?” Which makes me believe that Hunter wasn’t aware of the suicide pact. It was Sheryl’s plan for Hunter dumping her.

  Oh, Sheryl!

  I place the drawer back on its track and attempt to close it, but it doesn’t shut. I stick my hand inside and remove a small metal can with an ominous label on it. I drop it to the floor where it lands next to my handkerchief.

  Not only are my fingerprints on the evidence, I don’t even have a search warrant. And I have no real explanation for being here.

  There’s another problem. If I wipe my prints from the can, the killer’s will disappear along with them.

  The phone on Paddy’s desk starts ringing. I let his brogue tell the caller to leave a message.

  “I need to see you soon.” The voice is pleasant, but there’s a hint of trepidation. I wonder why she is calling Paddy here, on his private line.

  I storm out the back door, jump in my car, and leave gravel spraying about in the parking lot. I punch a number on my cell phone and pray that Judge Prescott isn’t teeing off somewhere.

  The judge is an old friend and has lived in Eastpoint for as long as he’s been on the bench: thirty-five years. He is one of a handful of judges who handles the criminal court for Suffolk County out of Riverhead. His stark white hair and clear blue eyes add a refinement to an imposing frame. When he’s not hearing a case in court, the judge works out of his house, a perk he received a few years ago after being stricken with a heart attack.

  His wife of twenty-nine years answers the phone. She is sophisticated without the snobbery, a pleasant and friendly woman and the judge’s alter ego when it comes to tough decisions.

  “Dorothy, it’s Hank Reed. Been a while.”

  “Hank, how are you?” She sounds warm and sincere. Apparently, she hasn’t seen the petition. Dorothy is not connected to the local gossip community. In fact, she devotes most of her time to caring for her exotic orchids.

  “Fine, Dorothy.”

  “And Susan? How is she? Haven’t seen her lately.”

  “She’s fine, too,” I lie.

  “Please give her my regards.”

  “I will, Dorothy, thanks. I need to speak to the judge. Is he around?”

  “He’s in the library, Hank. Hold on.”

  As I’m waiting for the judge, I ease up on the accelerator, realizing I’m doing forty in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone down Main Street. Just what I need, more gossip about that crazy police chief ripping up the road like a kid. There are still a few stragglers talking and waving the petition.

  I turn in to the stationhouse and park behind the gray, one-story building. It’s been a while since I’ve had to use my secretarial skills, but I need to type the search warrant myself. Too many wagging tongues.

  “Hank, my boy. What can I do for you? Is this a social call?”

  “Afraid not, Judge. I need a search warrant for Paddy Murphy’s place.”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence. The judge knows Paddy. He sponsored Paddy when he needed a green card to work in the States. “The bar or his house?” he asks.

  “The bar for now.”

  “I see. What’s up?”

  I know he’s aware of the murders, but I bring him up to date, leaving out my breaking and entering.

  “Sounds more like a gut feeling, Hank. Do you have any hard evidence? Probable cause?”

  I’m dying to tell him about the poison, the love letters, and the suicide note, but hold back. “Paddy had a motive, judge. For both murders.”

  “Of course he had a motive. His wife was sleeping with Hunter. But I need specifics.”

  “You knew?” I ask, dumbfounded. “How?”

  “Paddy confided in me soon after he discovered a pile of love letters she had written Hunter. I’m guessing about three weeks ago. We were at the bar. He’d been drinking pretty heavily, and I guess he needed someone to talk to. I have a sympathetic ear.”

  “What did Paddy tell you exactly, Judge?”

  “Only that he was quite upset with Sheryl but that they were working things out.”

  “And soon afterward Hunter turns up dead,” I add. I provide the judge a few moments to mull that over.

  “I know how it looks, Hank,” he finally admits. “But I was with Paddy the night of the murder.” The judge whispers into the phone. “Hank, between you and me, Paddy told me she did it.”

  The judge doesn’t mention the accused by name. Damned reverent of him
. I’m tempted to mention my wet-hair dry-shirt theory but hold off. “And when did Paddy conveniently let this out of the bag?”

  “Paddy stopped by this morning. As you can imagine, he was distraught over Sheryl’s murder and didn’t know what to do. He told me he couldn’t believe Sheryl would do such a thing, especially since it was, you know, her lover. She confessed to him, told him how she laced the bourbon then forged Hunter’s signature.” The judge pauses. “Paddy was afraid she would go to jail.

  I chuckle to myself. I have always held Judge Prescott in the highest esteem, but his myopic acceptance of Paddy’s bullshit makes me wonder about his objectiveness. I resist the urge to tell him so, and when I don’t respond, he continues. “Look, Hank, I wasn’t pleased that he hadn’t come forward sooner or gone to the authorities, but I’m not going to judge him on that. I might have done the same thing in his situation.”

  Amen.

  The judge then says with textbook authority that he strongly urged Paddy to talk to me.

  “Smart call, Judge. Paddy and I can sit down over a few beers and discuss Sheryl’s confession.”

  He ignores my sarcasm. Instead he says, “Look, Hank, under the circumstances, maybe it’s best to let it die with her. Who would gain by exposing all this?”

  The only thing missing is a red bow for Judge Prescott’s neat package. “Honestly, Judge, I find it hard to believe that Sheryl would kill Hunter. She was in love with the guy. And she certainly didn’t kill herself.”

  “According to Paddy, Hunter dumped her. I guess she wouldn’t take no for an answer—”

  “Did Paddy explain Sheryl’s confession in detail?” I ask.

  The judge takes a moment. “According to Paddy,” he emphasizes, “Sheryl spiked the bourbon with poison, went to Hunter’s house, poured him a drink, and…Look, Hank, it’s hard to understand human nature.”

  Human nature, my ass! “Don’t you find it strange that Paddy came forward at all?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “And Sheryl’s not around to corroborate his story.”

  “I know, Hank, it’s tragic. I guess he needed to get it off his chest.”