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

by Lichtenberg, Fred;

  I shake my head.

  “What?”

  “I thought you said you were happily married.”

  He smiles, displaying a chipped front tooth. “Did I say that?” Then Jerry noses the photographs. “They still a couple?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Beats me. I didn’t know they were involved in the first place.”

  “Well, if they are, it was probably the woman who did the shooting.” Jerry offers a wily grin. “I heard the husband had an alibi.”

  “I’m still exploring that end of it,” I say thoughtfully.

  “Let’s make some assumptions,” he continues. “Bartenders I know generally keep large calibers close by, just in case a rowdy patron gets out of line.” He stops, waits for my reaction.

  “Go on.”

  “The victim and this Jackie woman, slash husband’s girlfriend, knew each other, right?”

  I nod.

  “I’m thinking she set up the wife, maybe asking her for a ride somewhere, then used a small-caliber revolver on her. She could have easily fit it in a purse. And since your victim probably took a hit with a .22 or .25…” he stops, looks for my reaction.

  “I’ll give it some thought,” I say, not too enthusiastic with his theory.

  Jerry starts assembling the photos when I ask, “Could I check the bottle of Jack Daniel’s you guys found at Hunter’s place?”

  Jerry stops. “Sure, why?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  Jerry manages a grin. “Are you holding back on your old buddy?”

  “Let’s just say I’m nosy.”

  He studies me a moment, then motions inside. “It’s in the lab.”

  I follow Jerry. We pass a few forensic types playing with microscopes and approach another room, a sign on the door reading, “Evidence.” Once inside, he ushers me over to a small cubicle, reaches for a box labeled “John Hunter,” and sets it on a table. He finds a pair of sanitized gloves for me and watches me snap them on.

  I open the box and pull out the infamous Jack Daniel’s bottle, turn it, then twist off its black cap and place my nose to the opening, sniffing traces of quinine.

  “What are you thinking, Detective?”

  I’m thinking about Paddy and the bottle of Guinness he opened for me back at the bar. He told me the cap wasn’t tampered with. Not like this one.

  “Hello. Earth to Hank Reed.”

  I glance up. “You took fingerprints, right?”

  “Clean, outside of Hunter’s.”

  “Did you dust behind the seal?” I ask.

  “Behind it?”

  “Right.”

  Jerry blinks quizzically. “What are you getting at, old boy?”

  I bring the bottle closer to Jerry. “See these perforated edges at the bottom? A black plastic seal is used to cover the cap. In order to get to the cap, you have to pull down on the tab like a zipper, remove the seal and throw it away. It’s customer friendly. I’m hoping your guys found the seal somewhere in Hunter’s house.”

  Jerry searches my face. “Behind the seal.”

  “I’m thinking the killer didn’t want the bottle to look like it had been opened, so he must have previously removed the seal, unscrewed the cap, added the poison, and somehow glued it back on.”

  Jerry takes the Jack Daniel’s out of my hands and examines it for a long moment. “Hold this,” he says, handing back the bottle, then searches the evidence box and removes the perforated seal. He waves it at me. “Got it.” He brings it up to a light. “I don’t see any traces of paste or glue inside the seal.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Looks clean to me.”

  “Did your guys check the seal for prints before?”

  Jerry smiles. “You looking for a job?”

  “Yeah, yours if you don’t find any prints. How about we do it now?”

  “Pushy, aren’t we? Okay, let’s find out.”

  Jerry gives the seal a quick dust-over, then places it under a microscope. “Sorry.”

  My thumb glides over the ridged neck of the bottle, feeling the bottom part of the seal, below the perforation marks.

  How did you do it, Paddy?

  “Maybe the seal was off all along,” Jerry tells me.

  “Maybe,” I say, not convinced.

  My thumb keeps returning to a slight bur on one side of the seal. “Jerry, do you have a sharp blade?”

  “Sure. What’s going through your head now, Detective?”

  “I want you to remove the remaining part of the seal around the neck of the bottle.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Anything is possible,” I say desperately.

  Jerry opens a desk drawer and pulls out a blade. “This sharp enough?” he asks, not waiting for an answer, taking the bottle out of my hands. He makes a slit down the center and pulls back on the seal. “Let’s see where this takes us.”

  I watch Jerry cover the inside of the seal with fine black powder, then gingerly dust the surface and place it under a microscope.

  “I’ll be damned…”

  “You found something,” I say with excitement.

  “It’s not a full print, but enough for identification.” He rubs his eye, turns to me. “Homicide could use you again.”

  “Could happen if I don’t solve these murders soon.”

  Jerry leans over the microscope again. “If we can get a match, I think you’ll have your killer.” He straightens up, turns to me, then asks, “How soon can you get me a set of prints to compare this to?”

  I help myself to a grin, then, from my back pocket, I remove one of the letters I found in Paddy’s drawer, the one that didn’t stay with Wayne. “You might find a couple of prints on this one, mine included. I didn’t have time to be careful.”

  “Another story, huh, Hank?”

  I smile.

  After Jerry works some magic, he turns, and says, “Hank, I think you might have your man.”

  “Man,” I emphasize.

  “Or some lady with a big paw, but I don’t think so.”

  “Paddy,” I breathe.

  “Looks that way. They were a busy couple. You did say she was schtupping Hunter, too, didn’t you?”

  “Right.”

  “Hell of a town you got there, Hank.” He laughs.

  I don’t.

  Seventeen

  I’m in the middle of rush hour traffic and haven’t even reached the Long Island Expressway. My patience is wearing as I pound the horn at the slow driver in front of me. They’re all slow! I attempt the shoulder, my lights flashing, but there is a car broken down up ahead.

  All those accusations against my friends and loved ones are now behind me. Sheryl, Susan, even Wayne. Done, finished, kaput. I’m especially relieved about Susan. Divorce is one thing; but I would hate to visit her in jail.

  As I pass the Wading River exit, Kate calls. “Judge Prescott wants to talk to you. He’s upset, started using some legal language about Paddy Murphy. Never noticed that accent before.”

  “That’s his brogue,” I tell her. “He’s been working to Americanize his accent for years. It comes out when he’s upset.”

  “He’s upset, all right.”

  I hang up, put my thoughts in order, then dial the judge’s number. Dorothy answers, the ever-friendly soul. “It’s Hank, Dorothy. The judge around?” Like he might be at the Tanger Outlet Mall shopping for a new three-iron.

  “He’s expecting you, Hank.” Ever so gracious.

  There’s a slight delay, then another phone is lifted off the cradle, and I hear the judge tell his wife to hang up. Definitely, not a good sign.

  “Have you lost your mind?” he scolds, skipping the pleasantries. “Do you realize you could be removed from the force or, at a minimum, sued?”

  Sued maybe. I’m not about to fire myself. “He taunted me, Judge.”

  “What did you expect? He just buried his wife. I told you to wait. I trusted you, but you misguided me with your zealousness.”

  �
��If you’re going to admonish me about choking him, I accept. I was wrong. But Paddy destroyed evidence. For God’s sake, Judge, he typed up some phony love letters that Susan supposedly wrote to Hunter.”

  “Paddy told me he found those letters with Sheryl’s personal effects.”

  “He’s lying!”

  “Let me finish,” the judge snaps, his brogue giving away to his displeasure. “Paddy wasn’t going to produce them until he realized someone set him up with the suicide note and rat poison. He would never have come forward with Susan’s letters otherwise. Then you beat the hell out of him.”

  I resist the urge to laugh. “Paddy wanted to get back at me because he knew I was closing in on him.”

  The judge breathes heavily into the phone. “You’ll get nothing but grief out of this, Hank. Maybe more. The town is looking to take away your shield.”

  I attempt to put the judge on the defensive, by asking him why everyone seems to know every little detail of the investigation.

  “That’s a question you ought to address at your next staff meeting,” he says, coming back at me.

  “Maybe Paddy’s poisoning the town, trying to get me to stop the investigation or else.”

  “Leave Paddy out of this,” he demands. “You better hope he doesn’t sue you and the town. Hell, we’ll all wind up bankrupt!”

  I’m finally off the L.I.E., and I jam on my brakes to avoid an accident. “Shit!”

  “There’s no need for profanity, Hank. Apologize to Paddy, and maybe he won’t sue us. And I’m sorry you had to find out about Susan.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m going to arrest Paddy Murphy for the murder of John Hunter.”

  There is a sigh on the other end.

  “Forensics found Paddy’s fingerprints inside the Jack Daniel’s seal.”

  “I don’t doubt his fingerprints were on the bottle. It was probably taken from his bar.”

  “You’re not listening, Judge. I said inside the label. And if we go with your theory, Paddy’s prints would have been all over the bottle. They weren’t.”

  “You’ll just have to ask him. Scratch that. Don’t go near Paddy until you’re ready to apologize.”

  “Did you hear me, Judge? Paddy’s prints were found on the inside. It’s not that easy to do. They use a machine to slap on the seal to eliminate tampering. So how did Paddy’s prints get there?”

  There is no repartee this time.

  “Well?”

  “I can’t answer that, but there must be an explanation.”

  “When you find one, call me. In the meantime, I’m arresting Paddy and no one is going to stop me.”

  Judge Prescott lets a few seconds lapse before he speaks, his imperious voice returning. “True, you are Eastpoint’s top law enforcement official. But the case still has to be tried.”

  “That sounds like a threat, Judge.”

  “Where are you, Hank?” he asks, changing the subject.

  “On fifty-eight. The damn traffic is worse than ever.”

  “A good reason to work in your own back yard,” he quips. Then says, “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing, Hank,” and hangs up, leaving me with an uneasy feeling. It’s not until I reach Sound Avenue that it dawns on me: Judge Prescott is about to broach my impending arrest. I let him checkmate me!

  I track down Wayne, who is on his way home. “Arrest Paddy.”

  “What for?”

  Two murders in Eastpoint, and he has to ask.

  “He killed Hunter.”

  “Hank, I thought we agreed to hold off on Hunter’s investigation,” he protests.

  “Fuck the deal! Listen to me. Forensics found Paddy’s prints inside the seal of the bourbon bottle.”

  Wayne remains silent, and I’m wondering if he is grasping my order.

  “Wayne, just go to the bar and arrest him. I’m twenty minutes away, and I’m afraid he’s been tipped off.”

  “I’m on my way, Hank.”

  “Call me if he’s not at the bar. And have Charlie meet you there.” It’s tough finding competent people these days.

  When Wayne doesn’t call back, I aim my patrol car toward Salty’s. It’s dusk by the time I arrive, and except for a light behind the bar, the place is dark and quiet. Damn that Wayne! I’m about to start for Paddy’s house when I hear the frenzied sound of an ambulance siren. I wait a few moments and realize it’s getting closer.

  I gaze over at Salty’s and swear, then dash inside the bar, my gun drawn, hoping Wayne didn’t get carried away. I’m thinking this until I see my deputy on the floor, his hat off and his gray uniform dotted in red.

  “Wayne?”

  He looks up, dazed.

  “Did Paddy do this?”

  He nods.

  That fucking judge! “Where’s Charlie?”

  He tries to shrug.

  “I didn’t see your car.”

  “Back.” He points with his good arm.

  I wait for the medics to charge through the door. They greet me quickly, then attend to Wayne, one helping him off the floor and onto the gurney.

  “You’ll be okay,” he tells my deputy. “Looks like a flesh wound.”

  I approach Bill Kolowski, a six-foot paramedic with a heavy red beard, and ask, “How did you find out about the incident? I mean, there’s no one around.”

  He thinks a moment. “Someone must have called it in, Hank.”

  I nod absently, then follow the team as it wheels Wayne outside. “You’re gonna make it, Deputy,” I call out as they slide him inside the ambulance. I say that for myself, as well.

  I’m not going to waste precious time driving to Paddy’s house. Instead, I take a shortcut to Judge Prescott’s place, bypassing the downtown area then shooting up Eastpoint Path.

  On the way, I radio in to June Winters and ask her to put out an APB. Paddy is probably driving his black Pathfinder, I tell her.

  My fists pound on Judge Prescott’s front door, but Dorothy doesn’t answer. As gracious as she is, this is not a time for informal friendliness. The judge opens the door and glares at me as though I’m the one who shot Wayne.

  My eyes lock on his. “You’re as guilty as he is,” I charge. “I’ll see you on the unemployment line. Now where is he?” Normally, I would have to be crazy to defy the judge with such indignities.

  “You instigated this,” he chides, waving his fist at me.

  I take a step back. “How can you call yourself a judge by your actions? You were the only one I told about arresting Paddy. You warned him.”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  That’s a first from his lips. “Then why do I have a wounded deputy?”

  He stops, throws me a confused look. “What are you talking about?”

  I nod rapidly. “Right. Paddy must have left out a few details, like he shot his way out of the bar just as Wayne was about to arrest him.”

  Judge Prescott stiffens; his molten eyes soften. He steps back and leans against the door for support. “My God! I had no idea, Hank.”

  “Loved ones are the last to know.”

  He gives me a fleeting glance.

  “Which is it, Judge? A nephew or the son of a friend you knew back in Ireland?”

  The judge shoots a look over his shoulder, then motions me outside. He turns on the outdoor lights, and I follow him down a soft slope leading to the Long Island Sound. It’s too dark to see the water or the judge’s thirty-foot Bayliner.

  He stops at a black oak, waits a few moments before turning to me. “It was an indiscretion.”

  “Paddy’s your son?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Christ, Judge!”

  “What was I supposed to do, Hank?” he says in a conciliatory tone. “He swore he didn’t have anything to do with the murders.” He stops, gazes past me, and says, “Look, I’m truly sorry about your deputy. Paddy must have panicked. I’m certain he just wanted to escape.”

  “If he was innocent, Judge, why did he run?”

  The judge bow
s his head. “It has nothing to do with this.” He wipes his mouth with his hand. “He’s here because he can’t go back to Ireland.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me he killed a British cop.”

  Judge Prescott raises his head proudly. “He infiltrated a terrorist group, and they found out. They killed Paddy’s informant and were about to capture him when he escaped. Narrowly, I might add. Of course, I got him here as quickly as I could.”

  “A cop?”

  “RUC…Royal Ulster Constables.

  I scratch my head. “I thought they were a British outfit.”

  He nods. “They are, predominately. Paddy was tired of all the killings and—”

  “Not good,” I interrupt.

  The judge’s face registers concern. “You have to believe me, Hank, Paddy would never kill a civilian or a police officer. He’s been living in anonymity ever since he left Ireland. He’s a marked man.”

  I let a few moments pass, trying to process Paddy’s predicament. “It was you who set me up with that phony petition, wasn’t it? A threat if I didn’t accept Hunter’s death as suicide.”

  “The town was afraid,” he says softly, averting his eyes. “Our town, Hank.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Judge!” I say, my voice echoing over the calm evening. “You wanted to protect your son at any cost, including obstructing a murder investigation. You’re supposed to uphold the law for Chrissake! Remember the vow you took as a judge?”

  “Your sarcasm isn’t helping things,” he protests.

  I glare. “And neither is your betrayal.”

  The judge bows his head and remains quiet a moment. When he returns to me, he says, “Hank, you know how I feel about you. You’re like family. Your father and I were best friends. I tried to resuscitate him on my boat.” He pauses. “What would you have done in my case, Hank?”

  Hunter’s painting of Susan flashes in front of me, and I swallow hard. “Did my father know about Paddy?”

  He nods. “He was the only one I told. We trusted each other like brothers.”

  “Why the big secret?” I ask innocently. “I mean, why couldn’t you have told people that Paddy was your son from another marriage?”

  The judge sighs. “Believe me, I wanted to. I’m proud of Paddy.” He motions to the house. “It was Dorothy. She forbade it. She’s so…proper, and would never consent. I had to honor her wishes.”