RJ shook his head, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “When I turned sixteen, I got a fake ID and went to the Puma to see her dance. I wasn’t sure if she’d remember me, but she did, and we had a couple of drinks after closing. She was probably about fifty by then, but still hot in a slutty way.”
“Fifty’s not that old,” Billy said.
“You keep telling yourself that,” Ray said. He turned to RJ. “You remember what kind of car Danny drove in those days?”
“Yeah, that was the only thing I liked about the guy. He had a vintage 1971 Dodge Charger. Perfectly restored. Loved showing it off.”
“Let me guess,” Ray said. “Was it sky blue?”
RJ narrowed his eyes. “How’d you know?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ray leaned against the headboard and stared at the spectral glow radiating from his laptop in a liquid crystal luminescence. Michelle lay curled up beside him, her chest rising and falling with the easy sound of her breathing. In this light, she appeared otherworldly, like a faerie creature sleeping in the glimmer of a moonbeam.
He rubbed her back and she nuzzled closer to him, uttering a sleepy sigh that made him smile in spite of the dark nature of his research. His browser was opened to a pseudo news site dedicated to bizarre deaths. The site attracted the underbelly of society, the hateful little trolls whose real character came out under the cloak of anonymity provided by the Internet.
The site’s main page displayed a close-up of Danny on the rescue stretcher, his skin waxen and bluish. The angry purple scars of his castration showed up in stark detail, as did the dangling member attached to his face. A slew of comments followed the picture, the spiteful trolls flinging posts at the site like monkeys hurling feces.
Reba99: LOL! I betcha that sumbitch cheated on his wife. You go, girl!
Mommabear: Damn straight! He gonna get some strange? Mommabear gonna rearrange!
JoeyT: Looks like that dude’s hung like a Chihuahua… I think I’d drown myself too.
BigRex: Looks like the Great Gonzo!
Duff: What the hell’s a gonzo?
SoxFan: Look it up, you moron.
Duff: Who are you calling a moron?
SoxFan: I thought I was pretty clear on that. YOU are a moron.
SteveyT: 10 bucks says Duff is a Yankees fan seeing as he’s such a sensitive little bitch.
Lucy: I heard the dead guy was a gangster. I’d say he got what he deserved.
VinnyT: Yeah, sleep with the fishes!
TheArtist: Horrible people meet horrible ends.
MadMarksman: Amen to that.
TheArtist: His face is so expressive… even in death.
SoxFan: Yeah, I’d say he looks pretty bummed out. Hey Danny, why the schlong face?
Ray stifled a laugh. Sox Fan had nailed it with that last comment. The remaining posts read like the others—mean-spirited and belittling. The only exception seemed to be The Artist, who came across as preachy and boastful instead of crass and insensitive.
So there it was, another connection to art. Coincidence? Or something more? He rubbed a hand over his stubbly cheek. What if it was a false lead? Something that risked dragging the investigation down a rabbit hole if chased too far, leading nowhere except for the cold case file.
The creak of a floorboard drew his attention and he turned to see Allie standing at the foot of the bed. She wore pink kitten pajamas and was clutching her stuffed rabbit, Mitsy, by the ears.
“What’s wrong, Allie-cat? Another bad dream?”
She climbed onto the bed and nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. He set the laptop aside and drew her into his arms, feeling the flutter of her heart like a hummingbird’s wings.
“What was it this time?” he asked, stroking her hair. “Dinosaurs? Bears? Momma’s cooking?”
A haunted expression darkened her features. “A giant eyeball.”
Ray wrinkled his brow. “How can that even be dangerous? Couldn’t you just poke it with a stick?”
“It wanted to suck my eyes out. And it wasn’t the only monster. There were more in the basement. They were coming for me.”
“There’s no such thing as monsters, Allie. They only exist in dreams, on TV, or in your imagination. Nothing’s going to hurt you. I promise.”
“Are you afraid of anything, Daddy?”
“Everyone’s afraid of something.” He scooped her into his arms and stood up. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
She rested her head against his shoulder and caught his eyes as they exited the room. “What are you afraid of, Daddy?”
“I don’t know. Just the normal adult stuff, I guess.” He climbed the stairs and padded down the hall past Jason’s room, Allie’s hair tickling his cheek.
“Like what?”
What could he say that wouldn’t scare her? “Like worrying about keeping you guys safe.”
Her eyes widened. “Safe from monsters?”
“Didn’t I just tell you there’s no such thing as monsters? I meant keeping you safe from accidents. Like falling and hurting yourselves. Stuff like that.”
“Oh.”
He tucked her into bed and drew the comforter around her shoulders, hoping she’d exhausted her questions for the night. The last thing he needed was for her to go digging around for more fears. She already had more than she could handle, and he preferred to keep his own buried deep where they belonged.
But as he sat on the edge of the bed watching Allie’s eyes flutter under the spell of a little girl’s dreams, he pictured himself struck down in a hail of bullets in some trash-littered alley and imagined his kids growing into adulthood carrying nothing but a few hazy memories of him. Like a faded figure in an old photograph, the passage of time slowly blurring him out of existence.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Artist disengaged the bolt to the survival bunker and pushed against the bloodred steel door, which swung inward with a reluctant screech of hinges. The stench of caged animals assaulted him as he wheeled a cart inside, and although he’d grown accustomed to such smells, it still took a moment to settle his gag reflex.
The door clicked shut behind him and he fumbled against the wall for the light switch. The exhibits stirred to life on the viewing wall, the sudden brightness wrenching them out of whatever shallow realm of sleep their bodies had allowed. Across the room, the red indicator light glowed on the security camera. The Artist relished in the knowledge that it would capture the delicate state of their rising.
He rolled the cart into the center of the gallery and parked it beside a hospital gurney equipped with nylon restraints and a vinyl cushion streaked with blood. The Artist leaned over the cart and stirred Bitsy’s breakfast in a ceramic bowl.
“That IV may provide sustenance, but everyone knows a healthy spider needs his num-nums.” The Artist approached the viewing wall and climbed onto the stepladder, tilting the bowl so Bitsy could see the juicy mound of flies, some of them still wriggling. He scooped a heaping teaspoon from the bowl and pressed it against Bitsy’s lips, but Bitsy clamped his mouth shut like a stubborn little spider.
The Artist clucked his tongue. “Do you have any idea how difficult it was to peel your breakfast off the flypaper? And this is the thanks I get?”
Bitsy turned his head in a show of defiance and the Artist punched the insolent spider in the nose. When Bitsy opened his mouth in a silent scream, the Artist shoved a spoonful of flies into his gullet.
“That’s it,” he said. “Nummy-num-num, isn’t it?”
Bitsy squeezed his eyes shut and nodded slowly, twin rivulets of blood trickling out of his nostrils and spattering the top rung of the stepladder.
The Artist grinned. “That’s a good spider.” He fed Bitsy another spoonful. “Now keep that spider hole open until you’ve slurped down every last morsel.”
The Artist strode back to the cart and exchanged the empty bowl for a serving of oatmeal drizzled with brown sugar. “For my favorite goddess,” he said, offering a spoonful to Suz
ie. “I know you’re more of a carnivore, so I do apologize, but we are fresh out of roast leg o’Finkleton. You can thank our resident minotaur for that. He devoured more than his fair share at the last feeding.”
“Where’s my breakfast?” Greg asked. “I don’t see a bowl for me.”
“That’s because you’re having Rocky Mountain oysters.”
When Greg failed to react, the Artist planted his hands on his hips and cocked his head. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what Rocky Mountain oysters are?”
Greg shook his head.
The Artist looked at Finkleton. “What do you think, Bitsy? Any ideas?”
When Bitsy didn’t answer, the Artist chuckled. “I keep forgetting that I severed your vocal chords. How about you lip synch your answer instead? Give us your best Milli Vanilli?”
The Artist swayed his hips and spun in a slow circle, singing, “Girl, you know it’s true!” He clapped his hands. “I can’t be the only one feeling this. Bitsy, give me a head bob or something. And close your mouth. Nobody wants to see all those flies mashed in your teeth. Am I right, Suzie? Kind of a turnoff, isn’t it?”
The Artist winked at the camera. He was killing it today. “Who remembers this old song? I know an old spider who swallowed a fly. I don’t know why he swallowed that fly… perhaps he’ll die.”
He sang the last three words in an ominous baritone. “Don’t worry, Bitsy, I’m just yanking your egg sac. Those flies pack plenty of protein. Everything a healthy spider needs for building strong webs. Think of it like delicious chunks of chicken rather than dead insects with a nasty habit of regurgitating on their food.”
Finkleton blubbered, his eyes turning bright and dewy.
“Come on, Bitsy, don’t despair. You’re much too spectacular to be cooped up in this dingy old bunker forever. Soon, it’ll be time to venture into your natural habitat, where you can spin a web to catch your very own flies. And speaking of food, how about those Rocky Mountain oysters?”
The Artist turned to behold Greg’s chiseled physique, the shadow of his bull’s horns stretched long across the gallery floor. “Tell me what they are, Greg, and I’ll give you a prize.”
Greg’s jaw gaped open, as if waiting for a spoonful of flies. “Um. I… ah…”
“Come on, Greg, take a guess. It’s not rocket science.”
Greg drew a shuddering breath and swallowed audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing on his throat. “Is it a shellfish? Like a clam or something?”
The Artist intoned the wrong answer buzz of a game show. “I’m sorry, Greg, but that is incorrect. The answer I was looking for was bull testicles, although I also would’ve accepted the slightly more vulgar bull balls. Unfortunately, that means you won’t be taking home the grand prize today. But I am pleased to offer you our consolation prize—your very own back-alley castration.”
The Artist yanked Greg’s loincloth down to his ankles.
“What are you doing?” Greg asked.
The Artist walked to the cart and slipped on a pair of latex gloves. He could see Greg in his peripheral vision, thrashing against his chains. The Artist reached for an alcohol swab and tore open the foil wrapper. “This might feel a bit cold,” he said, crossing the room to swab Greg’s scrotum. “But I’d hate to lose another exhibit to infection.”
Greg’s eyes bulged from their sockets. “No, please!”
The Artist brandished a scalpel, the blade reflecting the harsh gleam of the picture lamps. “I like the attitude, Greg. Really, I do. But there’s no need to be nervous. I’m getting pretty good at this.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sunlight glistened on the rippling swells of Boston Harbor, a distant cluster of sailboats skimming the surface, weaving around each other like dancers in a nautical ballet. Ray watched the display from the seawall at Waterfront Park, shielding his eyes from the glare and cursing himself for not remembering his sunglasses.
Located on the fringe of the North End, the park was a grassy area bordered by cobblestone and bisected by a tunnel-like arbor covered in wisteria vines. To the right, a pedestrian walkway stretched past the brick façade of the Marriott Long Wharf hotel and merged into a pier packed with sightseeing boats bobbing in the water.
As Ray scanned the crowd, he sensed someone approaching from behind. He turned around to find Frank Eastman standing there, the early morning light illuminating the deep creases that ran like fault lines across his brow. At five-nine and pushing sixty, Eastman didn’t seem very formidable, but back in the day he patrolled the roughest neighborhoods of Dorchester, battling gangs and drugs and cracking just enough skulls to survive until retirement. These days, he ran a small PI firm and had recently won a bout with lung cancer.
As they shook hands, the pungent aroma of stale cigarettes wafted into Ray’s nostrils and he had to clear his throat to keep from gagging. “Still ignoring doctor’s orders, I see.”
“Who needs doctors? You watch, I’ll outlive them all.”
Ray shook his head. There was no arguing with an old-timer like Frank. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“How’d you make out with the intel?”
Frank handed him a manila envelope. “See for yourself.”
Ray fished out a stack of photos. “Still using the darkroom? You know it’s the 21st century, right?”
“I got no use for that digital bullshit.”
“What’s the problem, you hate the convenience? I’ll buy you one for Christmas.”
“I’ll smash it with a hammer as soon as I open it.”
“Remind me never to buy you a kitten.” He studied the first photo—his neighbor’s loser boyfriend, Darren Boyle, standing on the deck of a fishing trawler next to Flaherty’s chief enforcer, Bobby Two Times.
Ray sucked in his breath. “Something tells me this kid’s more than just an errand boy.”
“Take a look at the next one.”
Ray pulled out the second photo—Darren and Bobby leading a group of teenage girls off the boat. The girls were dressed in miniskirts and skimpy tops, and the ones baring their shoulders had tattoos visible across their right collarbones.
Ray squinted at the picture. “You get a close-up of those tattoos?”
“What do I look like, an amateur?”
Ray flipped to the next photo and found the close-up. The tattoos were identical: three stars curved around a watching eye. “What’s that, a brand?”
“The latest rage in human trafficking. Helps these scumbags keep tabs on the girls.” He pointed to the tall brunette in the center. She wore a low-cut shirt emblazoned with a half blue, half yellow flag inscribed with a symbol resembling a dragonfly with its wings laid back.
“How’s your knowledge of eastern European flags?” Frank asked.
“A little rusty. I’m gonna need a hint.”
“It’s Ukrainian.”
“That’s a hell of a hint, Frank. But there’s no way that little fishing boat could make a trip like that.”
“Turn to the next picture.”
Ray slid another photo out of the envelope. It showed a massive container ship with Russian characters painted above the English translation: Valkyrie. “When did this reach port?”
“The log shows that it docked in Southie at five o’clock Thursday night. The picture of Darren was taken an hour later.”
“So they rendezvoused in international waters and made a trade for what? Cash, drugs, weapons?”
“Something like that.”
Ray gazed into the harbor, where a lone gull wheeled above the sailboats. Then he flipped to the next photo, which showed Darren loading the girls into the back of a white van. In the final image, Darren herded the girls through the tinted glass doors of the Purring Puma—the strip club where Flaherty was rumored to be a silent partner.
Ray slipped the photos back into the envelope and grinned.
Darren was going down.
***
Ray
made a few calls before heading down to the Cape for a long weekend. As he and Michelle played with the kids on the beach, braving the shockingly cold New England water, a Coast Guard cutter carrying a team of ATF agents intercepted the Valkyrie on its return voyage to the Ukraine. The agents stormed the ship and seized a cache of weapons hidden behind a false wall in the engine room.
Meanwhile, the FBI raided the Puma, rescuing the girls and taking the owner into custody. Bobby Two Times evaded capture, but Darren Boyle wasn’t so lucky. The feds arrived as he sat with Sheila Morrison on her family’s stoop in Charlestown. He bolted at the sight of them, but Agent Calhoun chased him down and gave him an old-fashioned beatdown before slapping the cuffs on him.
Tommy Morrison called Ray afterward and told him it was the best damn thing he’d ever witnessed. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Sorry I missed it,” Ray said, watching Jason run down the beach, his Buzz Lightyear kite refusing to take flight. “I wish I could’ve seen the look on Darren’s face when they swarmed him. How’s Sheila taking it?”
“She was upset at first. You know, screaming and crying at the cops. But once she heard the charges and saw the guilty look on Darren’s face, she marched over there and kicked him right in the tenders.” Tommy chuckled. “I think he cried a little.”
***
From the moment Ray hung up the phone, it seemed like some cosmic prankster had hit fast-forward on the weekend. Before he knew it, it was Monday morning and he and Billy were sitting center stage at the Purring Puma, where a woman whose best stripping days were a decade behind her strutted around a pole and performed a routine of scissor kicks that resembled a naked rendition of Sweating to the Oldies.
At 6:30 a.m., the Puma didn’t exactly have what Ray would call its star performers on stage. Despite a steady draw of traffic from the trucker breakfast crowd, the margins paled in comparison to the evening hours when men showed up in droves and drank until closing, raining down cash like confetti.
The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller Page 8