The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller

by Derik Cavignano

  Spinonni drew a deep breath, still fuming. “We’ve got a lot to cover this morning, so try to remember this is a precinct and not a preschool. Are we clear?”

  No one said a word.

  “First item of business, we’ve got a homeless guy bludgeoned to death on Boston Common. That’s got your name written all over it, Duncan.” Spinonni gestured to the door.

  Taking the hint, Duncan rose from his seat and trudged toward the exit. “Have a nice time,” Spinonni said. “And watch out for lice. I suspect the buggers will be looking for a new host.”

  Spinonni glanced at his notes. “Next up, we’ve got a match on a bloody print found at the scene of yesterday’s knifing in Dudley Square. Benton, you and Eisberg take that one. See Sergeant Callahan for details.”

  Spinonni held up an official-looking envelope. “The arrest warrant for Julian Rogers. That’s your case ain’t it, Chang?”

  Officer Chang nodded. “I’m on it.”

  “Next,” Spinonni said, “we’ve got a report of another disappearance. Guy by the name of Barry Finkleton. Fifty-three years old, runs an art gallery on Newbury Street. His wife reported him missing yesterday. Foul play is suspected. Ridley, I want you to take the lead on that.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “That brings us to the final order of business: the Coleman case. The grand jury ruled in his favor, so Jim Coleman was released from jail this morning. So now we’ve got a brutal murderer back on the streets thanks to the weak testimony of Detective Hanley. You got anything funny to say about that, Ray? Any off-color remarks to make us all chuckle about Coleman getting away with murder?”

  Ray shook his head. Christ.

  “Alright,” Spinonni said. “That’s it. Get your asses back to work.”

  ***

  Lieutenant Spinonni glared at Ray from behind his desk. Arms crossed, not saying a word. Ray figured the silent treatment was supposed to make him squirm, but all it did was piss him off.

  “You got something to say, Lieutenant, or am I just here to look pretty?”

  Spinonni slammed his fist against the desk. “I didn’t spend thirty years in the service of this department to be disrespected in front of my subordinates. You pull that shit again and I’ll suspend you without pay.”

  Ray didn’t think the lieutenant could do that—either the union or the captain would intervene on his behalf—but he held his tongue. Spinonni was the type of guy you could only push so far, and he’d pushed enough for one morning.

  “Coleman walked because of your testimony,” Spinonni said. “And now a murderer is back on the streets.”

  “Coleman walked because there were too many gaps in the evidence. It’s not my job to exaggerate.”

  “It wasn’t a trial, Ray. It was a goddamn grand jury hearing. You didn’t need to poke holes in the case.”

  “You got a body somewhere? Cause I sure as hell never saw one. Didn’t see a murder weapon either. How do you expect me to testify around those facts?”

  Spinonni’s face flushed crimson. “I expect you to bridge the gaps in the evidence like any good investigator, but instead you got on the stand and sounded all wishy-washy. And now I’ve got the DA and the mayor with their panties in a bunch, wondering how the hell I let this happen.”

  “I don’t like the outcome either,” Ray said, “but we don’t have enough evidence to hold him. And before the DA starts pointing fingers, someone ought to remind him that he’s the one who rushed this case to court.”

  “Why don’t you tell him that, Hanley? See what happens?”

  “Just keep me on the case and I’ll get the evidence to put Coleman away for good.”

  “You’d better deliver, Hanley, or else you’ll spend the rest of your career pushing papers.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Larry Reynolds was having a real bitch of a day. When men with names like Jimmy the Weasel and Mikey Quick Trigger Maroni drag you off the street and drive you to a deserted construction site in the back of their vintage Cadillac, it’s understandable to feel a touch of despair.

  No one likes falling short of a fundraising goal, and that’s never as true as when you need fifty grand to pay off a gambling debt to the mob. If you’re an optimist, which he wasn’t, it was a useful way to determine who your friends really are. Unfortunately, his fundraising efforts yielded less than five grand and he’d already burned through a thirty-day extension.

  It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. If he hadn’t gone all-in on four of a kind, only to lose to a straight flush, he would’ve strutted out of Mohegan Sun with fifty grand for the mob and a hundred for himself. He could’ve made that money last for years on a remote beach in Mexico, spreading it between cheap beer and cheaper women. But since Lady Luck was a fickle bitch, here he was instead getting hauled out of the car by his hair.

  “Where’s the money?” Jimmy asked. “Tell me you have my money, Larry.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “You’re working on it?”

  “I just need—”

  Jimmy punched him in the nose and Larry heard a distinct crunch before collapsing to the ground in a heap. The coppery taste of blood filled his throat, and as he rolled onto his side and spat into the dirt, the words of his brother drifted through his mind.

  I wish I could help, Larry, but the only liquid thing I’ve got is Ryan’s college fund, and that wouldn’t be fair to the kid, you know? And besides, I’d get hit with a tax penalty on early withdrawals. You believe that? Taxing you on your own goddamned money?

  The mobsters loomed over him, glaring down with murder in their eyes.

  “You gambled it away, didn’t you?” Jimmy said. “You stupid sonofabitch.”

  Larry sat up. “I’ll get you the money. Just give me—”

  Jimmy kicked him in the stomach, knocking him flat onto his back and expelling the wind from his lungs. “Shut your mouth and listen.” He cocked his head at Mikey. “You believe this guy? Trying to give us orders?”

  Mikey yanked him to his feet and slammed him against the Cadillac. “We warned you, Larry. Or did you forget our last conversation?”

  Larry recalled that last conversation well enough, since most of it had occurred with the business end of Jimmy’s gun in his mouth. The general theme had been pay up in thirty days or die.

  “You ask me,” Mikey said, “he’s never getting that money. No matter how many chances we give him.”

  Jimmy folded his arms and stared at Larry. “I think Mikey’s right, which isn’t good news for you. I’d rather not have your death on my conscience, but I’ve got a job to do. And it’s important not to forget that you brought this on yourself, Larry. If you think about it, it’s almost like suicide.”

  Larry’s eyes stung with the threat of tears. “Just give me one more week. I’ll get the money, I swear!”

  “I don’t see it happening,” Jimmy said. “We could give you another month and still never see that money. Business is business, Larry, and sometimes you gotta know when to cut your losses.” He patted Mikey on the shoulder and motioned to the construction site, where a labyrinth of steel girders rose from a concrete foundation. “Take him to that trench near the backhoe. And make it quick.”

  Larry tried reasoning with them, but Mikey pressed a gun to the back of his head and marched him up a low rise toward the trench. In the distance, the black ribbon of the Mass Pike wound through the city, the drone of passing cars carried on the wind. Beyond that loomed the lights of Fenway Park and the iconic Citgo sign perched upon a building to the left of the Green Monster.

  “How about them Sox?” Mikey said.

  Larry closed his eyes and tried to slow his racing heart. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Stop talking,” Mikey said. “You’re making it worse.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, do you prefer to murder in silence?”

  A shot rang out and Mikey and Larry turned in time to see Jimmy the Weasel’s head disintegrate into a fine, red mist.
>
  A second shot hit Mikey in the shoulder and rocked him on his heels. The gun tumbled from his hand and Larry kicked it away, sending it skidding into the trench.

  A figure emerged from the tall grass about fifty yards distant, a rifle slung over his shoulder. A moment later, a vintage black Camaro rolled down the drive and parked next to Jimmy’s body. A middle-aged man climbed out and marched toward them, his eyes the color of blue steel.

  Larry looked at Mikey, not sure whether to celebrate or to slither under the backhoe and hide. “Who’s that?”

  Mikey’s voice was barely a whisper. “Jack Flaherty.”

  The burly man with the rifle nodded to Flaherty, then drew a handgun and shot Jimmy’s corpse point-blank in the heart. “It only takes one bullet,” he said, “but I like to shoot ’em two times.”

  The line sounded rehearsed, and Larry connected it to something he’d read in an organized crime exposé in the Boston Globe. Bobby Two Times, rumored to be Flaherty’s most ruthless lieutenant.

  “You’ve got to admire his thoroughness,” Flaherty said, directing his gaze at Mikey. “What’s he owe you?”

  Mikey stood like a soldier reporting for inspection—chin up, back straight. Rivulets of blood ran down his muscular forearm and dripped off his fingertips, leaving crimson splotches in the dirt. “Fifty Gs,” he said, his lips barely moving.

  Flaherty whistled, his eyes locking on Larry. “Looks like I just saved your ass. Which means you owe that money to me now. Understand? You’ve got two weeks.”

  Larry nodded, avoiding Flaherty’s eyes, which reflected the mad gleam of a cat toying with its prey.

  “Just so we’re clear,” Flaherty said, “if you disappear without paying, your debt transfers to the person you love most. And since you look like a mama’s boy, you should know I’ve got no problem collecting from little old ladies. But don’t worry, I’m always willing to work out alternative payment arrangements, if you know what I mean.” He slapped Larry on the cheek and grinned. “Believe me, the worst thing you could do is underestimate me. Am I right, Bobby?”

  “Absolutely,” Bobby said, his gun pointed at Larry’s chest.

  “What do you say, Mikey? Do you plan on underestimating me?”

  “I don’t think that would be wise,” Mikey said.

  “No,” Flaherty agreed, “it wouldn’t. Now call your boss and tell him the truce is over. And try your best to speak clearly, because Bobby’s about to put a bullet in your kneecap.”

  Bobby Two Times winked at Flaherty and adjusted his aim. “What do you say, boss? How about I make it a double?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “You take your lumps?” Billy asked, climbing into the Explorer.

  Ray arched an eyebrow and shifted into drive. “What do you think?”

  “You know he can’t take a joke, right?”

  “Course I do. That’s what makes it so rewarding.”

  “Be careful you don’t push him too far. I’ve seen him ruin careers over less.”

  “You done lecturing me?”

  “For the moment.”

  “Good, because I gotta catch you up on Danny the Mule.”

  When he finished telling Billy about his morning pitstop, Billy sat in silence, staring at the road and soaking it in. Somewhere behind those aging gray eyes, his mind was projecting a thousand scenarios, assigning probabilities, and distilling the results into a single theory. He’d seen Billy do it a hundred times and it was uncanny how often he nailed it.

  “This was a revenge killing,” Billy said. “Committed by some sick fuck who planned every detail, probably months or even years in advance. The castration, the nose replacement, the Hot Wheels car—it all has a very special meaning for the killer.”

  Ray nodded. “There’s got to be something more about the car. I mean, Danny had a kid’s toy parked up his ass. Think of the contrast—childhood innocence mixed with something so perverse. The way I see it, our killer was molested as a kid. And maybe Danny is the one who did it.”

  “Don’t you think we would’ve heard rumors if Danny was a pedophile?”

  “He was fifty-one when he died. Say he was diddling in his thirties or forties—that would leave enough time for his victims to grow up. And something like that can shatter a kid’s psyche, leave him with the twisted wreckage of a broken mind. A kid like that might spend years planning his revenge.”

  Billy grunted. “It’s a start.”

  “Let’s see what we can pry out of the usual suspects.”

  “Right,” Billy said. “Because they’re such a talkative bunch.”

  “What about RJ?”

  “Doubtful,” Billy said, “but it might be worth seeing what he knows.”

  They were headed southwest on Washington Street, making their way from the Dorchester precinct to Coleman’s house in suburban West Roxbury. Coleman lived in a two-story colonial near the wooded sanctuary of Stony Brook Reservation. It could’ve been a great starter home for a young family or an idyllic location for empty nesters, but instead it marked the scene of a horrific crime.

  Ray pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, his eyes shifting to the porch windows, where the blinds were drawn tight against the outside world.

  They climbed out of the Explorer. “What are the odds he’s home?” Billy asked. “If I was Coleman, I’d disappear as soon as I hit the streets.”

  Ray shrugged, keeping his eyes on the windows and his hand near his gun. With Coleman just released from jail he didn’t expect a struggle, but sometimes you just never knew. It was best never to let your guard down. That was a lesson he’d learned young, long before becoming a cop. Overconfidence had cost his father his life on a dingy subway platform when Ray was a freshman in high school. There were still times when he jerked awake in the dead of night, drenched in sweat, his ears ringing with the phantom echo of the mugger’s laughter, his mind replaying the moment his dad slumped to the ground, blood spurting from his chest in arterial gushes.

  Ray shrugged off the memory as he would a physical chill and ascended the porch stairs, chiding himself for dwelling on the past. A breeze coaxed music from a nearby windchime and he wondered if Suzie Coleman had heard the same metallic tinkling as blood ran from her body in the upstairs bedroom all those weeks ago.

  He rang the bell and dropped back, his eyes shifting to the windows on either side of the door. One of the slats of the blinds lifted a quarter of an inch before falling back into place.

  “Left window,” Ray said, feeling his chest tense against his Kevlar vest. Ordinarily, the vest was a constant source of discomfort, but at times like this he welcomed its suffocating embrace. He used to slip on an exterior vest only for calls like these, but after the kids were born, Michelle talked him into wearing one underneath his shirt for the entire shift. But with the late spring days heating up, he was sometimes guilty of skipping it altogether.

  The front door swung inward and Coleman appeared behind the storm door, visible from the waist up.

  “Let’s see your hands,” Ray barked, drawing his Glock.

  Coleman held out his palms like a mime trapped in a box. Dark scimitars underscored his eyes and Ray wondered if he’d been drinking. “My lawyer said I shouldn’t talk to you.”

  “You got released from jail because of my testimony,” Ray said. “Did your lawyer tell you that?”

  “He said a detective poked holes in the prosecutor’s case.”

  “That’s right,” Ray said. “Mind if we come in?”

  “I should probably call my lawyer.”

  “Why?” Billy said. “You keep saying you didn’t do it. Help us figure out who did.”

  Coleman settled his hand against the door, and for a moment Ray thought he might slam it in their faces. But instead he held it open and waved them inside. The place was decorated with high-end furnishings and accents of modern art, but it had the musty scent of a home that hadn’t been lived in for a while.

  “Are you here to make sure I don�
��t skip town?”

  “Something like that,” Ray said. It’d been weeks since he’d last seen the place. He gestured to the dozen or so paintings he could see from the foyer, which had a sight line into the living room and dining room. “Are you an art collector?”

  Coleman shook his head. “Those are Suzie’s.”

  “She works in graphic design, doesn’t she?” Ray said.

  “Yes, but the paintings are just a hobby.”

  Ray pointed into the living room, where he could see an empty bottle of Tito’s vodka lying on the floor beside the coffee table. “Mind if we sit for a chat?”

  Coleman shuffled into the living room without answering, his gait clumsy enough to warrant a field sobriety test. He misjudged the height of the recliner and collapsed onto the cushion, his foot kicking the vodka bottle and sending it skidding across the hardwood.

  Ray and Billy exchanged a glance and eased themselves onto a matching leather sofa.

  Coleman’s eyes shifted from Billy to Ray and back again. “I don’t know what else I can tell you other than I didn’t do it.”

  “Let’s walk through the timeline again,” Ray said. “The night Suzie went missing you were both at a bar with some friends. You had too much to drink and got into an argument with Suzie after she caught you hitting on a bartender.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why were you hitting on the bartender in the first place?” Ray said. “Didn’t Suzie just catch you having an affair a few weeks earlier?”

  Coleman averted his eyes. “It wasn’t an affair. I got drunk at a conference in New York and had a one-night stand.”

  “How’d she find out?” Billy asked.

  “She saw pictures on my phone. I don’t even remember taking them.”

  Billy chuckled. “Rookie mistake.”

  Ray shook his head at the inside joke. Billy’s own infidelity had unraveled in much the same manner a few years earlier. “You understand how bad this looks, don’t you?”