The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller

by Derik Cavignano

  As the bullets continued to fly, a series of screams rang out from the table behind them and Ray caught a glimpse of a construction worker sprawled on the ground, the clover treads of his work boot stained a glistening crimson.

  When the gunfire ceased, leaving a phantom echo ringing in Ray’s ears, the Infinity peeled away down Broadway trailing an acrid plume of burnt rubber in its wake.

  Ray scrambled to his feet and charged into the road, drawing his Glock and returning fire. One of his shots blew out the rear window, glass shattering in all directions. Another shot hit the rear passenger tire and sent the car fishtailing across the intersection, causing it to crash head-on into a concrete utility pole.

  “Got you,” Ray muttered.

  The passenger door swung open and Vito the Cucumber staggered out, one side of his face coated in a mask of blood. Vito spun toward Ray with the AR-15 and opened fire.

  Ray flung himself over the hood of a Jeep Wrangler parked on the street. He crouched behind an oversized tire as a barrage of bullets plunked into the chassis and safety glass rained down around him like glittering jewels. He waited for the dry click of the empty chamber before peering around the front bumper.

  Vito pitched the assault rifle into the street and reached frantically to his waist for a handgun. He’d earned his nickname for being cool under pressure, but he certainly wasn’t acting it now.

  “Drop it!” Ray yelled, taking aim over the Jeep’s hood as a warble of sirens rose in the distance.

  Vito’s fingers curled around the grip of his gun—he’d come too far to give up now—and Ray pulled the trigger without hesitation, hitting center mass. Vito’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the pavement. The gun tumbled from his hand and skidded into the gutter.

  Ray eyed the Infinity before venturing into the street. The concrete utility pole was buried two feet into its front end and steam billowed up from a busted radiator, partially obscuring the silhouette of a man slumped in the driver’s seat.

  Ray crept toward Vito, both hands on his Glock. But Vito was too far gone to make a move. “Did I get him?” Vito asked, a rivulet of blood running from the corner of his mouth. “Did I kill that mick bastard?”

  Ray pointed his gun between Vito’s eyes. “You shot a cop. You don’t deserve to know.”

  Vito coughed violently, grimacing as he spat up blood. “He killed my brother.”

  Ray flashed back to Jimmy the Weasel’s funeral. He’d seen Vito standing in the circle of mourners beside Jimmy’s widow, his grief masked behind his aviator glasses. That’s how it was with these guys. Violence begetting violence.

  “Please,” Vito said. “I gotta know.”

  A shot rang out in the street and Ray whirled around to see a man in a bloody dress shirt slump to the ground, a gun sliding out of his hand.

  Billy holstered his Glock and crossed the street. “What the hell’s wrong with you? You didn’t think to check on the driver?”

  Ray’s legs went rubbery. “I was saving him for you.”

  “You’re not even wearing a vest, are you?”

  Ray shrugged. It was too goddamned hot on a day like this.

  “You’d better smarten up,” Billy said, thrusting a finger at him. “You keep charging into situations like that and you’re gonna wind up dead. And who do you think they’re gonna ask to notify Michelle that you’re never coming home? I’d rather shoot myself than make that trip, so try using a little caution.”

  Ray holstered his Glock. “How’s Garrison?”

  “A whole lot smarter than you. He actually wears his vest.”

  “He’s alright?”

  “Might’ve cracked a rib, but yeah, he’s okay.”

  “What about Flaherty?”

  Billy frowned. “That sonofabitch has nine fucking lives.”

  ***

  A dozen units converged onto the scene, police flashers reflecting off the surrounding windows in stroboscopic bursts of red and blue. Paramedics charged toward Finnegan’s Landing and triaged the victims, loading them into ambulances and speeding off toward the hospital with sirens wailing.

  Finnegan’s patio resembled a slaughterhouse floor. Blood glistened in every corner. Trails of scarlet footprints stained the sidewalk in all directions.

  What was it Giabatti had said at Jimmy’s funeral?

  I’ve got a feeling this is gonna be one hell of a bloody summer.

  Question was, had Giabatti ordered the hit, or was Vito acting on his own?

  Ray stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the scene. Broadway was closed to traffic in both directions, a pair of squad cars angled in a V at either end of the street. Uniformed officers rerouted motorists down A Street and Dot Ave, and judging by the distant blaring of horns, Ray imagined cars were backed up all the way to L Street, no doubt cursing their bad luck.

  The Crime Scene Services team was already on site, snapping pictures of Finnegan’s patio from all angles and bagging up bullet casings and debris from the gutter. Billy stood outside of the Dunkin’ Donuts a few doors down talking to Sergeant Callahan. Judging from all the pointing and gesturing, Ray figured Billy was giving his report of the shooting. Unlike Lieutenant Spinonni, the sergeant was a real cops’ cop. He trusted his men and managed by exception. And since Ray and Billy were both seasoned detectives, Callahan didn’t spend much time overseeing their work. Which was perfectly fine by Ray.

  Callahan caught Ray looking and motioned him over. The sergeant had a slight build and a kind face, and although his thinning hair was still sandy blond, the deep lines at the corners of his eyes hinted at a more advanced age. Callahan shook Ray’s hand, holding it for a moment longer than was comfortable, as was often his way. “Billy tells me you were quite the hero this afternoon. A little too brazen, maybe, but a hero nonetheless.”

  “I wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t for Billy.”

  Callahan nodded. “That’s the kind of teamwork I like to see. I’ve gotta warn you though, the lieutenant is concerned about the fallout from all of this.”

  “What fallout?” Billy asked.

  “The mayor held a press conference this afternoon about the escalating violence in the city. He spoke about partnering with the police chief and the FBI to implement new strategies to crack down on the mob.” Callahan gestured to the scene behind them. “Unfortunately, all of this went down during the mayor’s speech and he was completely in the dark. But the reporters sitting in the audience got alerts on their phones and blindsided him during Q&A, making him look like a fool.”

  Ray frowned. “So now the blame game starts.”

  “You got it,” Callahan said. “The mayor blames the chief, the chief blames the captain, and so on down the line.” He pointed to Ray and Billy. “But most importantly, we don’t want it coming out that when Giabatti’s goons opened fire you two were having lunch with Flaherty.”

  Billy’s eyes widened. “That’s a crock—”

  Callahan laid a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “I know. That’s why we need to get ahead of this before anyone can spin it.” He shifted his gaze to Ray. “I’ll do damage control with the lieutenant, since you can’t seem to have a conversation with the man without insulting him. Understood?”

  “Yeah, Sarge, I got it.”

  “Good. And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of department policy, but you’re both on administrative leave, effective immediately. Bring Detective Greene up to speed on anything you need investigated while you’re out.”

  “Come on, Sarge,” Billy said. “You’re gonna put us on leave for this?”

  “You know I don’t make the policy,” Callahan said. “But I expect you to follow it. Now, I can have an officer escort you to the psychiatrist right now in the back of a squad car, or you can do it on your own within the hour, but I’ll be checking in with Doctor Stevenson.”

  “We’ll take ourselves,” Ray said.

  “Good,” Callahan said. “As long as he doesn’t think you’re cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, I
’d say you’ll be back on the streets in a day or two. So why don’t you take care of business and then get a stiff drink. You cheated death today. Let’s hope it never comes back to even the score.”

  “Yeah,” Billy said, “let’s hope.”

  Callahan patted their backs before ducking beneath the crime scene tape and heading toward his unmarked Impala. When the sergeant was out of earshot, Ray said, “I wanted to interview those artists before calling it a day.”

  “I’d say that’s off the table now.”

  “We take down two gunmen and the department yanks us off the streets? What the hell kind of logic is that?”

  “Just take the free vacation and let it ride. We can give Detective Greene the less likely suspects and save the others for when we get back.”

  “Fine,” Ray said. “Maybe Greene can also track down that stripper’s last known address.”

  Billy grinned. “Can you imagine Greene at a strip club?”

  Ray shook his head. Greene was as straight-laced as they came and was so socially awkward that Ray suspected he might have Asperger’s.

  Billy motioned toward Finnegan’s Landing, where a patrolman stood talking to Flaherty and scribbling in a notepad. “Should we add our two cents?”

  “Let him say what he wants,” Ray said. “It’s our word against his.”

  After a few moments, the patrolman flipped his notepad closed. Flaherty glanced in their direction, a grin tugging at his lips. He strode across the street and tipped them a wave before disappearing behind the battered green doors of The Rock.

  Billy shook his head. “He doesn’t seem too broken up about Mad Murph getting blown to bits.”

  “That’s because Flaherty only cares about Flaherty.”

  Ray’s eyes wandered back to the blood-smeared patio. It was a lot of collateral damage for a failed assassination attempt. Two of the construction workers had died and another was in critical condition. Only one had escaped with minor injuries. Even their waiter had gotten caught in the crossfire, cut up by flying bits of glass from the windows shattering.

  Ray caught sight of Hector from Crime Scene Services taking pictures of the skid marks where Vito and his partner had peeled wheels in their doomed attempt to flee the scene. Gary Wong appeared beside Hector and exchanged a few words before heading over to Ray and Billy.

  “Looks like this one’s pretty clear cut.”

  “Yeah,” Ray said. “Billy and I made sure you didn’t have to work too hard.”

  Gary grinned. “It’s nice to get an easy one every once in a while.”

  “You got anything new on Finkleton?” Ray asked.

  “A few updates, yes. But I wanted to talk about Danny the Mule first.”

  “What do you got?” Ray asked.

  “A pair of silicone elephant ears.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Billy asked.

  “My team found them floating in the quarry with a bunch of other trash. We bagged them up and flagged them for further analysis, not expecting anything to come of it. But after seeing Finkleton transformed into a spider and knowing that Danny had stitches in his ears and had experienced his own body modification, it got me thinking.”

  “It’s supposed to be a trunk,” Ray said. “The penis on his face. He made Finkleton into a spider and Danny into an elephant.”

  “That’s what I think too,” Gary said. “And we found strands of Danny’s hair caught in the silicone.”

  Billy nudged Ray in the arm. “You remember what RJ said about Angie T’s kid?”

  “The kid warned him not to accept elephant rides from Danny. Christ, we’ve got to find that stripper.”

  Billy chuckled. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

  “Did you find any other hair?” Ray asked. “Any DNA we can link to the killer?”

  “Unfortunately, not,” Gary said. “But maybe what we have on Finkleton will help.”

  “I’m listening,” Ray said.

  “It’s not much, but we did get a few hits when we crosschecked the entry gate prints with the criminal records database—two DUIs and a serial shoplifter. All of them live near the park.”

  Billy shook his head. “Twenty bucks says that doesn’t amount to anything.”

  “Maybe not,” Gary said. “But we also got an ID on the tire tracks found by the path. They were made by a Goodyear Wrangler with a 265-millimeter width.”

  “What kind of trucks are we talking?” Ray asked.

  “It’s a pretty broad field,” Gary said. “Class 1 and class 2 pickups, possibly a large SUV. Basically, anything from a Toyota Tacoma to a Ford F-150. It’s carried as a replacement tire at a variety of auto parts stores, so it’s not unique to a particular make or model.”

  “That’s not exactly the breakthrough we were hoping for,” Ray said.

  “Sorry guys, I wish I had more.”

  “What about the testing of the rope fibers?” Billy asked.

  “Came back negative,” Gary said.

  “What about that sticky substance on the web,” Ray said. “Do you know what that was?”

  Gary chuckled. “It was honey.”

  “What’s so funny about that?” Billy asked.

  “It’s the killer’s idea of a joke,” Ray said.

  “I must be the only one not getting it,” Billy said.

  “The killer made Finkleton into a spider,” Ray said, “and Finkleton had a habit of rubbing people the wrong way. I think he’s saying Finkleton could’ve caught more flies with honey.”

  Billy pursed his lips. “So this is all about teaching Finkleton a lesson? Putting him in his place?”

  “Could be,” Ray said. “And as twisted as this murder was, it was also very creative. And symbolic. So what does that tell you?”

  Billy grunted. “We need to interview those artists.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “How did it make you feel, Ray? Pulling that trigger, watching a man die?”

  Ray stared across the desk at Doctor Stevenson and resisted the urge to go with his natural response. One scumbag down, one million to go. Instead, he sipped from a Styrofoam cup filled with watery coffee and scowled at Stevenson. “I felt like I had no choice. If I didn’t pull the trigger, he would’ve shot me.”

  “But how did you feel emotionally?” Stevenson steepled his fingers and studied Ray with scientific detachment.

  Ray wondered how it would feel to drive his fist into Stevenson’s doughy face. But he knew how to play the game, so he gave Stevenson the response he was looking for. “I felt relieved at first. Glad the danger had passed. But as Vito lay dying, I also felt pity.”

  “For whom?”

  “For the victims. For Vito. For the senselessness of it all.”

  Stevenson leaned forward and nodded, as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along. No doubt thinking his genius had guided yet another patient to an epiphany of self-discovery.

  “And what of your father, Ray?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It seems to be your favorite topic of conversation whenever I’m sent here.” He had veered off script, but he didn’t care. Telling people what they wanted to hear wasn’t his style and he could only stomach it for so long.

  “Are you still searching for your father’s killer?”

  “I keep my eyes open.”

  “And before you shot Vito, did he remind you of the man who murdered your father?”

  Ray clenched his hands into fists. “I know what you’re doing, Doc. I don’t suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. I don’t go around shooting people who remind me of my father’s killer. And I don’t use deadly force unless it’s absolutely necessary. And anyone who thinks otherwise is full of shit. Do me a favor and put that in your report.”

  He pushed back his chair and stood up.

  Stevenson’s expression didn’t change. He continued to observe Ray with his prying, gray eyes. “Is there anything els
e you’d like to say?”

  Ray halted at the doorway and glanced over his shoulder. “Get some better coffee… or next time, I really will go rogue.”

  ***

  Ray stormed into the waiting area and found Billy lounging on a leather sofa, leafing through an issue of Cosmo. He wondered if Doc Stevenson made an experiment out of observing which magazines his patients selected.

  Billy tossed the magazine onto the coffee table and stood up. “How’d it go?”

  “He’s not bleeding.”

  “Sounds like you passed. What do you say we get that drink now?”

  Ray’s phone chirped before he could reply. He fished it out of his pocket and glanced at the display. Christ. This was the third call in the last hour. He accepted the call and brought the phone to his ear, bracing himself for the inevitable.

  “Ray? Is that you? Are you okay? Is everything alright?”

  “Yeah, Ma, it’s me. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  “They said your name on the news. I almost had a heart attack. They said it was a mob execution, bodies piled up in the streets.”

  Ray closed his eyes and sighed. “That’s an exaggeration. And I’m sure the news didn’t say I was injured.”

  “What do they know? They’re always getting things wrong. Rushing to beat each other to the story, not taking the time to check facts. Do you really think I could trust that bimbo at Channel 7? If I put my ear to her head, I’m sure I could hear the ocean. And how can she even read the story with those fake boobs blocking her view of her notes?”

  “I’m pretty sure there’s a teleprompter, Ma. It’s the 21st century, no one’s looking down at a sheet of paper anymore.”

  “Well, I wish they were. When Walter Cronkite was sitting behind that desk, the world was a whole lot safer. I can tell you that.”

  “Okay, well, I’d love to talk more about newscasters with big boobs but—”

  “So would I,” Billy said.

  “—I’m trying to wrap up this investigation.”