“Stop!” Ray yelled.
But the man in the Red Sox cap had already vanished into the night.
Ray charged after him, the buzz from the evening’s drinking now completely evaporated. The man hustled toward Monument Park, his arms flailing like the grownup version of the kid who always got picked last in gym class. Ray broke into a sprint, moving with the fluid grace of a wide receiver running for a Hail Mary. He’d always taken the physical demands of his job seriously, knowing that his life could at any moment depend on his speed, strength, and agility. And while there were plenty of guys scarfing down doughnuts at the precinct and getting softer by the hour, Ray wasn’t one of them.
The man in the Red Sox hat rounded the corner and darted into the park, the Bunker Hill Monument looming over him like an ancient monolith. Ray weaved between a pair of wrought iron benches, startling a pair of horny teenagers making out near the foot of the obelisk. Ray closed the gap and launched himself at the assailant, tackling him at the waist and driving him face-first into the grass. The man rolled over and scrabbled away on all fours, but Ray kicked him in the side and laid him out flat.
Ray loomed over him, the .38 aimed at his heart. “You’re under arrest,” he said, and rattled off the Miranda warning.
The man’s face contorted. “Please, I can’t go to jail. They’ll kill me.”
“Who will kill you?”
“I can’t, they’ll know I talked.”
“If you’ve got something to help your case, you’d better say it.”
“But—”
“Let’s start with your name.”
The man drew a jittery breath. He seemed on the verge of hyperventilating. “Larry Reynolds.”
“Why’d you rob the liquor store, Larry?”
“I owe people money. A lot of money.”
“Let me guess,” Ray said. “The mob?”
Larry nodded, his eyes welling up.
A warble of sirens approached from the south.
“Who’s shaking you down? Jimmy the Weasel?”
“He was,” Larry said, “but now he’s dead. Him and Mikey both.”
Ray arched an eyebrow. He hadn’t heard any reports about Jimmy or Mikey getting whacked. “Did you kill them?”
“No,” Larry said. “But I saw who did.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“He looks like shit,” Billy said.
“Let me see.” Ray leaned forward in the driver’s seat and peered into the binoculars, squinting as he adjusted the focus. He could see into the living room, where Coleman sat slouched on the sofa wearing nothing but a drooping pair of boxer briefs and a scraggly growth of beard. He seemed to be staring ahead at nothing, his eyes bloodshot.
“Doesn’t look like a flight risk to me,” Billy said.
“Seems more like a suicide watch.”
“You really think he’s innocent?” Billy asked.
Ray thought back to his first look at the crime scene. Something about the blood splatter had seemed off. It didn’t match the patterns he was accustomed to seeing. Not even the splatter cards he carried for reference had anything remotely similar, and one arc of blood on the headboard had almost looked as though it’d been squirted from a syringe.
And Coleman was right—no sleeping pills were found inside the house. Not even a Ziploc bag with trace residue. Besides, if it was meant to be a murder-suicide, why bother hiding the body? And what about the hint of bruising on the inner crease of Coleman’s elbow? Had someone injected him with a sedative?
“Do you think Suzie could’ve staged it?” Ray asked.
“What are you talking about? There was enough blood to be fatal.”
“She could’ve drawn it in advance. They take a whole pint when you donate at the blood bank. You do that a couple of times, store it at the right temperature, then wait for the right moment and stage the scene.”
“Okay, so she frames her cheating husband, but then what? She’d need to disappear forever, and her insurance policy is in Jim’s name.”
“They could be in on it together.”
“I’m not feeling it,” Billy said.
“Me neither. I’m just trying to lay out all the possibilities.”
“What do you say we give him a little rope? Come back later and watch him from a more discreet location. See where he goes.”
“Alright,” Ray said, “but I want to be at the precinct when the feds have their turn questioning Larry.”
“You think he’ll cooperate?”
“We’ll see. Flaherty has turned witnesses before.”
“Yeah,” Billy said, “or made them disappear.”
“Let’s hope not this time.”
Ray’s phone buzzed to life. He glanced at the display and hit speaker. “Tina, what’s happening?”
“I’ve got an update on Danny McDougal.”
“He still dead?” Ray asked.
“Did you expect it to be otherwise? We’ve determined cause of death.”
“What was it?”
“Sepsis.”
“That’s an infection, isn’t it?” Ray asked.
“Technically, it’s a complication that occurs when a bacterial infection reaches the bloodstream. Without aggressive treatment, it can lead to organ failure.”
“What do you think caused it?” Billy asked.
“There’s a risk with any surgery, but maintaining a sterile environment reduces the chance of bacteria entering the body through an open wound. And while the surgical procedures performed on Mr. McDougal were surprisingly neat, the conditions may have been far from sterile. We’re still waiting on several tests from the lab, but we’re confident that sepsis caused him to suffer multiple organ failure. The bowel obstruction likely exacerbated matters. That alone might’ve killed him eventually.”
“Anything else?” Ray asked.
“We submitted the Hot Wheels car to the crime lab for analysis. I expect the results are available by now.”
“I saw the report this morning,” Ray said. “It’s a 1971 Dodge Charger. Tested negative for prints.”
“Must’ve drove itself up there,” Billy said.
“There’s something else you should know,” Tina said. “Mr. McDougal had a small wound on his throat that had partially healed around a foreign substance.”
“What kind of foreign substance?” Ray asked.
“Calcium sulfate.”
“What’s that mean in English?” Billy said.
“It’s more commonly known as plaster of Paris. It’s used to make a variety of things.”
“Like what?” Billy asked.
“Building material, casts, sculptures. Just for example.”
“And you found that in his neck?” Ray asked.
“A couple grams of hardened material, yes.”
Ray mulled it over. “Is that everything?”
“That’s it for now,” Tina said, “but I’ll be in touch when we know more.”
***
“What do you think?” Ray asked as they drove back to the precinct.
“The plaster of Paris in his neck could be something.”
“Yeah, but how’d it get there?”
“Maybe he was tied against a stucco wall and cut himself on a rough edge.”
“Could be,” Ray said. “Based on the bruising, he might’ve been tied up by his neck.”
“You still think Giabatti had nothing to do with it?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Flaherty gunned down two of Giabatti’s goons in revenge for Danny’s murder.”
“Just because Flaherty thinks Giabatti killed Danny doesn’t make it true,” Ray said. “If Giabatti wanted Danny dead, he would’ve put a bullet in his brain, not perform reconstructive surgery. I think we ought to work the molestation angle. It’s the easiest place to start.”
“You know I like easy.”
“Yeah,” Ray said, “I’ve seen your girlfriend.”
“What can I say, I like trashy women.”
&
nbsp; “Then you hit the jackpot with that one. What’s your ex think?”
“I go through a lot of trouble to make sure those two never meet.”
“Probably a good idea. How is Mary, anyway?”
“Still a pain in my ass. She won’t stop bitching about Tyler’s behavior, says he’s disrespectful after spending the weekend at my place. Like I don’t teach him manners or nothing. I mean, show me a twelve-year-old who isn’t an asshole.”
Ray steered the Explorer into the precinct’s parking lot. He cut the engine and turned toward Billy. “There might be another angle here. The killer dumped Danny in the quarry without weighting him down. Hundreds of people walk those trails every day. It’s obvious he wanted Danny to be found.”
“He wanted to shame him,” Billy said.
“Exactly. The papers could only run censored pictures, but all it takes is one rubbernecker to post cell phone photos online.”
“Everything checked out with that guy,” Billy said.
“Yeah, but did you see there’s hundreds of comments on his post? The killer’s got to be relishing in that. He’s probably even commented himself. But even if he used different usernames, his posts would all originate from the same IP address.”
Billy furrowed his brow. “You lost me.”
“You really need to take a computer class.”
“I know how to get to the porn sites.”
“That’s half the battle.” Ray climbed out of the Explorer and grabbed his sports coat from the backseat. “My point is, our cyber guys might be able to identify the location he’s posting from.”
“Then why the hell didn’t you just say that?”
“Because I forgot I was talking to an old man.”
Billy shot him a dirty look and motioned to a bright orange spray of graffiti on the brick wall of the precinct.
YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO GO FUCK YOURSELF. SO WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?
Billy shook his head. “I think RJ’s losing his edge.”
“I don’t know,” Ray said. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”
Billy touched a finger to the paint. “Looks fresh. Spinonni’s gonna flip his lid.”
Ray chuckled. “Good old RJ.”
“We should pay him a visit.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
***
Ray poured himself a coffee in the breakroom and overheard Lieutenant Spinonni bitching about the graffiti. It was obvious from Detective Ridley’s expression that Spinonni had been blathering on forever, the lieutenant’s cheeks getting ruddier by the moment. Ridley was backed into a corner, his exit blocked by the water cooler and by the swell of Spinonni’s gut, which seemed a contraction away from birthing a litter of assholes.
Ridley gestured to Ray in an obvious plea for help.
“What are you smirking at?” Spinonni asked, turning toward Ray.
“Just enjoying my coffee. Got any leads on the weekly diss?”
“You think it’s funny?” Spinonni asked.
“I find it amusing.”
“It’s an embarrassment,” Spinonni said. “And if I ever get my hands on that punk, I’ll give him an old-fashioned beatdown. Shit like that didn’t happen when I was a patrolman. We would’ve gone out there and cracked some skulls.”
“Ah, the glory days.”
“Damn right,” Spinonni said.
Ray caught a glimpse of Ridley slinking toward the door. “Hey, Ridley, where are you going? The lieutenant was just about to tell us about the glory days.”
Ridley ran a hand through his Hollywood hair. “Um, I need to check on something.” He darted through the doorway and vanished into the hall.
Spinonni stared after him. “He’s a good kid—well-mannered and respectful. You could learn a lesson from him.”
“I don’t need to kiss your ass, Lieutenant. That’s why I pay my union dues.”
“Very funny. How’s your buddy Coleman?”
“Best I can tell, he’s a razor’s edge from suicide.”
“Good, it’ll save the city some money. By the way, I’m assigning you the Finkleton case. Ridley just got called to active duty.”
It took a moment for the lieutenant’s words to register. He’d forgotten that Ridley was in the Army Reserve, although it did explain his unwavering respect for authority. “Afghanistan?”
Spinonni nodded. “Six-month tour.”
“When’s he—”
Captain Barnes poked his head into the breakroom and pointed at Ray. “They’re ready for you in the interrogation room.”
***
Special Agents Dearborn and Calhoun intercepted Ray in the hall. They were part of the FBI’s organized crime unit and Ray had worked with them on cases like this in the past. Dearborn had a cowboy cockiness that Ray despised, but Calhoun was a decent enough guy if you looked past the flashy suit and slicked-back hair.
“What’s going on?” Ray asked.
Dearborn rolled his eyes and gestured toward the interrogation room. “That clown doesn’t realize how good of a deal this is.”
“What’s the deal?” Ray asked.
“Full immunity in exchange for his testimony and participation in a sting operation.”
“Wait a minute,” Ray said, “what sting operation?”
Dearborn and Calhoun exchanged a glance. Calhoun said, “We need Flaherty to admit to extortion or murder on a wire.”
“And you want to use Larry as bait? No wonder you two are standing out here talking to me.”
Dearborn clenched his jaw. “You and I both know Larry’s not worth shit if he clams up before the trial or if he mysteriously disappears.”
“You need insurance,” Ray said.
“Exactly.”
“Can’t you just hold him in protective custody until the trial starts?”
“That’s one option,” Dearborn said.
“Then why the operation?” Ray asked. “It seems extreme.”
“The bureau has been burned before,” Calhoun said.
Ray had been around long enough to read between the lines. The bureau had botched a similar case in the past and the director wasn’t about to let it happen again. “So you need me to convince him to take your deal?”
“He asked for you,” Calhoun said.
Dearborn thrust a finger at Ray. “You better not have made him a promise you can’t keep. What’d you say to him last night, anyway?”
Ray locked eyes with Dearborn. “What I say to the people I arrest is my business. Now, put that finger away before it gets broken.”
***
Ray strode into the interrogation room and found Larry sitting at a scarred, wooden table with his hands cuffed in his lap. His court-appointed attorney sat to his left fidgeting with a pen and sweating under the lights.
After Ray shut the door, Larry turned to his attorney. “You can leave now.”
The attorney blinked behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Excuse me?”
“I said you could leave now.”
“You sure you want to do that?” Ray asked.
Larry made a shooing gesture. “Off you go. Bye-bye now.”
The attorney got up in a huff, making a big show of shoving his papers into a leather portfolio. He stormed across the room and shook his head at Larry before slamming the door behind him.
“That’s the best the city had to offer?” Larry asked. “Even free of charge, I feel like I got ripped-off.”
Ray squeezed himself into the tiny chair across the table from Larry. It was no accident that the chairs made for torturous sitting. The front legs were cut a half inch shorter than the rear to keep suspects feeling off balance. When combined with the bright fluorescent lights and the warm, stagnant air of a tiny room without ventilation, it made for a veritable chamber of discomfort.
“Why am I here again, Larry? You got something else you want to share?”
Larry shook his head. “I told you everything last night.”
“You’re in way over your hea
d, aren’t you?”
“You could say that.”
“What’s all the drama with your attorney?”
“The guy was a moron.”
“Still, you probably need—”
“Please,” Larry said, holding up a hand. “I ran circles around guys like that in law school.”
“You went to law school?”
“Not just any law school, Yale.”
“So how the hell did you end up here?”
“Cocaine, man. The song says she don’t lie, but the truth is she will fuck you up.”
Ray leaned forward. “Who hooked you, Larry?”
The fine art of interrogation often involved playing the roles of patient and shrink. He had to stay nonjudgmental if he wanted to gain Larry’s trust and keep him from clamming up.
“This guy Stuart. He lived across the hall from me during first year. He swore by cocaine, said it kept him hyper-focused on his studies, let him pull all-nighters without losing clarity. Anyway, long story short, I got hooked and flunked out. After that, I started gambling to make money and ended up getting hooked on that too.”
“Christ,” Ray said, “that’s a depressing story.” He gestured to the interrogation room. “What’s your angle here?”
“Honestly, I just didn’t like those FBI guys.”
“Yeah?”
“A couple of condescending pricks.”
Ray brayed laughter. “You know they’re listening, right?”
“Of course,” Larry said, extending his middle finger to the two-way mirror. “I’ve got a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“What do you think about this deal?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because I can read people and I think you’ll give me an honest answer.”
“Okay,” Ray said. “It’s a shitty deal, but I think it’s all you’re gonna get.”
“So it’s either that or prison?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“What’s the other way?”
Ray mimicked a throat-cutting gesture.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a Yale man, figure it out. Let’s say you refuse to testify. After a couple months of hard time, you might still roll on Flaherty to get a reduced sentence. You think he’s gonna take that chance? He’s got a lot of friends in prison just itching to earn his favor. You’d be lucky to last a week.”
The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller Page 6