by J. M. LeDuc
PAINTED BEAUTY
BOOK TWO
THE SINCLAIR O’MALLEY SERIES
J.M. LEDUC
SUSPENSE PUBLISHING
Also by J.M. LeDuc
The Sinclair O’Malley Series
Sin
Trilogy of the Chosen
Cursed Blessing
Cursed Presence
Cursed Days
Short Stories
Phantom Squad: The Beginning Trilogy of the Chosen
Phantom Squad Series
Cornerstone
PAINTED BEAUTY
By
J.M. LeDuc
DIGITAL EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Suspense Publishing
J.M. LeDuc
Copyright 2016 J.M. LeDuc
PUBLISHING HISTORY:
Suspense Publishing, Paperback and Digital Copy, May 2016
Cover Design: Shannon Raab
Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/ Tuchkovo
Cover Photographer: Shutterstock.com/ Andrey Armyagov
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
DEDICATION
To all the men, women who protect and serve. To those in uniform and to those who remain faceless and nameless in order to protect us from harm, my deepest thanks.
To my wife, Sherri, my steadfast love.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I need to acknowledge and thank Suspense Publishing and John and Shannon Raab for all they have done and continue to do for me and for all their authors. I’m honored that we have been together since the beginning, but more importantly, I’m blessed to call you my friends. Thank you.
I want to thank those I contacted in Washington who have asked to stay nameless. I thank you for your help and for what you do, day in and day out.
To my Beta Readers: Lollie M, Heather B, Jeff R, Marsha G, Tammy S, Stephen L, Jake M, Paula S, Mike A, Todd M, and Stella G, thank you for your comments and constructive criticism. You have all helped make this a better book.
To fellow author and friend, Amy Lignor, thank you for the laughter and encouragement. L&L lives.
My deepest thanks to my editor extraordinaire, Shannon. I’ve heard it said that books that are hard to write make for easy reading. Based on that adage, this should be the easiest of reads. Thank you for being there when I needed to talk this book out and for helping me get back on track when I strayed off course.
I need to acknowledge William Blake for his works, Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. The poems found within these bodies of work became my silent muse while writing Painted Beauty and the impetus to drive the story in its ultimate direction.
Finally, to the readers, Painted Beauty has taken longer than expected and you have been more than patient. I think you’ll find the wait worthwhile.
Happy reading and God bless,
JM
PRAISE FOR J.M. LEDUC
“Painted Beauty is a suspenseful, action-packed, thriller and Sinclair “Sin” O’Malley is an altogether appealing and kickass protagonist. Beauty with a beast inside, Sin takes no prisoners. Spending some quality time with Sinclair O’Malley may just be the sweetest literary sin you ever commit.”
—Michael Lister, Author of Innocent Blood
“J.M. Leduc does it again! Sinclair O’Malley is back in the biker’s saddle riding herd on mayhem and the malign in Painted Beauty, a tale with more twists and turns than a double-jointed rhumba dancer. Leduc’s precise strokes of expert narrative and confident plots paint such a vivid picture, so colorful and unexpected, that I found myself hopelessly offering myself to Sin’s dream world just so I could stay there a little bit longer. Everybody needs a Sin in their lives. She’s the daughter I never had and always feared I deserved.”
—Sandra Brannan, Author of the Liv Bergen Mystery Series
“As twisted and disturbing as a fun house mirror, Painted Beauty explores the sometimes fragile line between creativity and madness, taking the reader along for one heck of a ride.”
—Lisa Clark O’Neil, Author of the Southern Comfort Series
“J.M. LeDuc’s words burn up the page. You’re not just turning them, you’re in a constant race to beat the scorch marks created by his blistering plot. There are books that keep you up all night, desperate to know what happens next, how they play out. These are the kind of books I love as a reader. They’re the kind of books that made me want to be a writer in the first place. J.M. LeDuc is the real deal. Painted Beauty is a blazingly good read.”
—Steven Savile, International Bestselling Author of Silver
“Go ahead, take a bite of the apple—this decadent Sin is an original! Painted Beauty, the second novel in J.M. LeDuc’s Sinclair O’Malley series is a fresh, juicy thriller made hearty with the pulp of old-style justice. When a high-profile murder threatens South Beach’s tourist season, the mayor calls for the FBI’s best, and Sin delivers. Special Agent Sinclair O’Malley is a spunky, sassy, smart heroine in a complicated world that demands her ace crime-solving skills and her penchant for retribution. This tale is sure to captivate readers who enjoy a rich plot rife with twists and turns until the very last satisfying page. Embrace this guilty pleasure!”
—Gina Fava, Author of The Sculptor and The Race
“Painted Beauty crackles with all the energy, banter, and mysterious twists and turns as the first Sinclair O’Malley mystery [Sin]. LeDuc’s protagonist and Florida setting are breathing much needed life into the mystery/procedural, and Sin stands to become this generation’s Travis McGee.”
—Kane Gilmour, International Bestselling Author of The Crypt of Dracula
PAINTED BEAUTY
Sinclair O’Malley Series: Book Two
J.M. LeDuc
CHAPTER 1
Ash’s complexion deepened and sweat began to bead on his skin as he grimaced from the noise. His shoulder instinctively jerked upward to approximate the downward tilt of his ear in a nonexistent hope of drowning out the shrill din.
“Preparation is everything,” she screeched. “Art doesn’t just happen. The end result has nothing to do with instinct; it’s taught.”
Ash carefully arranged the backdrop of the room in order to capture the mood for his creation. The easel had to be placed just ‘so’ if he was to capture the proper angle of sunlight as it streamed under and through the partially boarded windows.
“The light is as important as the subject being painted,” the voice wailed.
He ground his teeth at the harsh audible invasion. Nails on a chalkboard, he thought as he tried to concentrate on his task and not on the voice. If I can just execute the proper preparation, I know she will go away. Don’t let anything come between you and your art.
Don’t let anything come between you and your art, he repeated. In the past years, it had become his mantra—even more so in the past few weeks. That’s when he found his proper medium.
“All artist
s have an optimal medium,” she’d say. “Some prefer sculpture while others use paint. It’s not just what you use to create with, but what you choose to create on that makes the biggest difference. It’s the difference between being remembered as an artist and being remembered as an artiste. There are millions of artists—but only a handful of artistes.”
He allowed himself a slight degree of self-satisfaction knowing that with his new medium, he would now be in that category. With the easel set in position, Ash breathed a sigh of relief. Now for the heavy part, he internalized. He needed to stay silent. Any small sound could cause her to instruct, or worse—reprimand. Either would be emotionally draining.
With a surgical mask covering his face to keep out the noxious fumes, Ash went to the cabinet, slid out the drawer, and with delicate precision picked up his canvas. Sweat began to drip down his forehead as he transferred it to the easel. He wasn’t a big man, and he had to be careful not to drop his work in progress.
He had prepared everything the day before, and now he was ready to bring art to life. The twenty-four hour delay came with both positive and negative effects. Although the positive outweighed the adverse, the bad was hard to ignore. He tried to breathe as shallow as possible and only when absolutely necessary. The canvas had a foul odor, but he was willing to overlook it, his creation would soon be finished and hanging in an open environment.
Brush and pallet in hand, he drew in a deep breath, dabbed the brush in a medley of colors, and concentrated on his work.
“The face is the most important feature,” she cackled. “It doesn’t matter how good the rest of the creation is, it’s the face—the damn face—they always look at first. If you don’t grab their attention immediately, you’ve lost them.”
Ash shook his head with fierce determination, attempting to clear his head of distractions. But she wouldn’t stop.
“Cruelty has a human heart,” she squealed.
Ash clamped his eyes closed as tight as he could, mentally begging her to go away. I know what I’m doing, he thought, I don’t need you berating me.
He opened his eyes and visualized his finished work—the shocking beauty of his creation. He knew everyone who laid eyes on it would be speaking his name with admiration and respect.
With sure strokes and Zen-like concentration, he painted.
First the base and then the accents.
Day turned to dusk which soon gave way to night, but it didn’t matter. Ash could still see the rays of sunlight in his imagination, and he used them to construct the perfect representation of his thoughts.
Exhaustion came with the final details. The last touch of the brush to the canvas was almost orgasmic. He dropped his tools and nearly collapsed. He slouched on the nearby mattress, allowing his body to unfold, dropped his head back, and fell into a satisfying slumber.
Even as he slept, her voice persisted, “It doesn’t matter what you think of your work, its public opinion that counts. And don’t be mistaken,” she shrieked, “it doesn’t matter if they love you or hate you as long as they are talking about you.”
Her last words woke him from his reprieve.
He looked at the red numbers blinking on the old clock. He had time for one final adjustment before moving his canvas to its place of display. From a box he removed an electric saw and cut lengthwise along the canvas. He moved the blade with delicate precision and sliced with grim determination until his work was complete.
Ash tingled with nervous excitement as he gazed at his surroundings. He had spent weeks searching for locations to present his work, knowing that if the environment was wrong, or if it didn’t match the overall impression of his work, all would be lost.
Setting his masterpiece in the perfect spot to catch the morning sun, he had just a few more modifications to make before the unveiling was possible. He laid an envelope on the easel, adjusted the silk sheet that covered his canvas, and disappeared into the night with a contented heart.
A heart that would soon grow heavy due to her perpetual droning.
“There is no such thing as perfection. It is your job and the job of all who are able, to take the plain and the ugly and make them vibrant and beautiful.” Her voice softened, “You have moments, mere moments, to admire your work,” her voice rose again as if it were a symphony rising towards the crescendo, “and then on to the next piece. Only through constant toil can you continue to strive for a perfect, everlasting impression.”
“Damn her,” he mumbled as he headed home.
CHAPTER 2
Agent Troy Stubbs of the FDLE was hoping to enjoy his last day on the job, but that hope was fleeting. He stepped out of his car and looked out past the yellow crime scene tape toward the Atlantic Ocean. The beauty of the water was one of the things calling him home—one of the reasons he was leaving the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.
Why would anyone want to desecrate such beauty? he thought, as he spotted the medical examiner and the forensic team set up by the beach volleyball court.
The call he received shortly after punching in this day was a strange one. He asked dispatch to repeat the words twice to make sure he had heard correctly. A 911 call came from an elderly couple who found a dead body on a stretch of Miami Beach called Condo Canyon, a three-and-a-half mile strip of oceanfront that ran along Collins Avenue from 72nd Street down to 44th. The body was specifically found where 64th Street would have dissected Collins Avenue if a condominium hadn’t stood in its way, a part of the area where there was a small beachfront park and public parking. The fact that a body was found was not that unusual—this was Miami after all—but the details were odd. Troy was doubtful of their authenticity until he stood in front of the macabre scene.
He squinted to help shade the early morning sun and saw a body at the base of the volleyball court. It wasn’t a body that had washed up on shore, or one that had been dumped on the sand. No, this body had been meticulously placed; whoever left it wanted it to be seen.
And seen it was. As much as the authorities wanted the scene protected, the beach was surrounded by high-rise condominiums, and the balconies were overloaded with on-lookers and the camera curious.
“Pretty fucked up, don’t you think?”
Troy looked to his left and saw his captain eyeing the victim. “That’s one way of describing it,” he replied.
“Come on,” Captain Rand motioned, “let’s go talk to the ME and fill your last shift with enough shit that you will never want to come back.”
“Hey Quincy,” Rand said with a sarcastic bite, “what are we looking at?”
A man of small stature with a white buzz cut looked up from where he was squatting, “Call me Quincy again, you’ll be looking up from my autopsy table.”
Rand laughed at the doc’s retort. “It’s always good to see you, too, Mel.”
While continuing to concentrate on the scene in front of him, the doc pointed his chin toward Troy, “Who’s this, your replacement?”
“Wishful thinking,” Rand said. “Unfortunately, this is Agent Stubbs last day with the department. Troy Stubbs, allow me to introduce you to the larger-than-life, Dr. Melvin Howard.”
“So now we’re cracking short jokes?” the doc remarked.
Rand emitted silent laughter as he helped his good friend up off the sand.
Dr. Howard stood, pulled the latex gloves from his hands, grabbed a bottle of water and extended his free hand to Troy. “You the same Troy Stubbs who was once touted as the next great thing at the University of Miami?”
Troy shook the doc’s hand and gave a quick nod. “That was a lifetime ago, but, yeah, I’m the same Troy Stubbs.”
Dr. Howard wiped the sand from the front of his chinos. “I’m a long time booster at the university. That was a hell of a thing you did back then. You may not have had a lot of supporters, but I was sure proud of you. Not many kids your age would have thrown away a college football and probably a pro career for some girl he didn’t even know. You sure we can’t find a way
to keep you on the department’s payroll?”
Troy’s mind flashed back to his freshman year at the University of Miami.
A top high school recruit, he was slated to be the starting quarterback at the “U” his sophomore year. At an end of the year party, a girl with an unwarranted reputation had been drugged and raped by some of the party guests, including a few of his teammates.
He had been warned to keep his mouth shut, but watching how the girl proclaimed her innocence and maintained her sense of pride while being libeled in the press and ridiculed on campus changed him. Maybe it reminded him of how he and the boys treated Sin during high school—or maybe he just grew up—whatever the reason, he couldn’t look the other way.
His testimony gave the victim her life back and lost him his scholarship.
Troy stood a bit taller, nodding his thanks to Dr. Howard. “It just seemed like the right thing to do, and no,” he said, eyeing the scene, “this is definitely my last day.”
“Should I get you two a room or would you like to concentrate on what’s in front of us?”
Troy kicked at a shell with the toe of his boot.
“Jonathan, you just hate it when you’re not the center of attention,” Dr. Howard said.
Captain Rand pointed to the corpse. “Speaking of center of attention, what the hell do we have here?”
Squinting from the morning sun, Troy eyeballed the bizarre image in front of him.
Sitting by the nearest post of the volleyball net was a whitewashed, wooden chair. In the chair sat a woman—a dead woman of indiscriminate age due to the layers of paint, wearing a couture, coral-colored, cocktail dress. Her legs were crossed and could be seen starting just below the knee-length hemline. Her hair was a dark brown with a hint of eggplant at the tips. It rested on her shoulders like a soft halo and glistened from the morning sun. The ensemble had been completed with painted fingernails, jewelry, and open-toed, high-heeled shoes. The dress appeared brand new except for the tear or cut that ran lengthwise from the collar to a point just below the victim’s sternum. Unfortunately, the cut didn’t stop with the fabric. The victim’s chest was sliced open and the incision went straight through her tissues and bone. The woman’s ribs had been separated and clamped open, exposing her heart.