“Okay, dear. But you’re okay? I mean, really?”
“Yeah, Ma.”
“You know, I wish you’d quit the force and go to law school. Your grades were so good in college. I know it was only criminal justice, but—”
“Okay, Ma, I gotta go. Talk later, okay?”
“I love you.”
“Okay, same here. Goodbye.” He ended the call and shook his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have picked up.”
Billy grinned. “But I find her so entertaining.”
“Yeah, she’s a blast.”
“So, about that drink?”
“Let’s make it a coffee.”
“What’re you pregnant or something?”
Ray lifted an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He reached into his pocket for the keys to the Explorer.
“We going to Dunks?”
Ray shook his head. “There’s a place in Cambridge I want to check out. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”
***
Ray squeezed the Explorer into a metered spot across from the iconic live music venue, The Middle East. A fixture of Central Square since the ’70s, The Middle East was painted an eclectic mix of purple, green, and yellow, and featured the golden head of a bull looming above an oversized mural of multicultural figures. It was a microcosm of the Cambridge neighborhood—diverse, artsy, and edgy. A place where new-age hipsters came for live music, good coffee, and ethnic restaurants, where students from MIT, BU, and Harvard came to kick back between classes, grab a drink, catch some live theatre, or drop in on an improv comedy show.
Billy stared out the window and scowled. “I’ve never seen so many man buns in my life. If I had a pair of scissors on me, I’d snip off every goddamn one.”
“Just what this neighborhood needs,” Ray said, “a cranky old man killing everyone’s buzz.”
Billy climbed out of the truck and gave him the finger. “Wait until you turn forty-five. See how funny it is then.”
“I’ll check back in thirteen years. Just let me know which nursing home you’ll be at.”
Billy adjusted his sports coat and gazed down the street. “I took Kelly here a few months ago to see a comedy show, but all we got was some freak wearing a doll around his neck while fighting furniture.”
Ray chuckled. “I would’ve paid money just to see the look on your face.”
“Come on,” Billy said. “Let’s get this over with. You’re cutting into my drinking time.”
They followed Brookline Street for two and a half blocks before arriving at the coffee shop Keiko had told him about. With an obvious nod to the MIT crowd, the sign above The Particle Bean displayed a glowing blue laser splitting a coffee bean down the middle, creating a spray of grinds that fused together to form a heart. Inside, the café was bright and airy, furnished with distressed wood tables and cushioned chairs in eye-popping colors. Works of art hung from the slate-gray walls in an erratic arrangement that Ray found almost too dizzying to look at.
Billy strode up to the counter and ordered a small black coffee, but the pimply-faced barista shifted his weight and frowned. “Uh, we don’t have a small.”
“What the hell do you mean you don’t have a small?”
“We have four sizes: electron, proton, neutron, and atom.”
Billy fixed the kid with a withering stare. “Aren’t all of those small?”
“They’re arranged in order of subatomic mass.”
Billy clenched his teeth. “I want a goddamn small.”
“Just give him an electron,” Ray interjected. It didn’t help that the kid was sporting a man bun. “And I’ll take a proton latte.”
Billy shook his head. “I hate this fucking neighborhood.”
“Why don’t you find us a seat? I’m buying.”
“You’d better be,” Billy grumbled before stalking away.
When Ray delivered the coffee a few minutes later, he found Billy sitting in a velvet wing chair thumbing through a recent issue of the Improper Bostonian.
“Whatever happened to The Phoenix?” Billy asked, taking the coffee from Ray. “They used to have the best Adults Classified section. Anything you wanted, they had.”
Ray shrugged. “I’m gonna check out the art.”
“Alright,” Billy said, turning to the local party scene photos. “I’ll catch up with you in a few.”
Ray walked along the nearest wall, his eyes scanning the paintings, each of which had a laminated tag listing the artist’s name and a price that practically guaranteed it would be hanging in The Particle Bean forever.
Some of the works were modern—just a few splatters of paint or broad brush strokes, the kind of thing Jason or Allie could’ve pulled off in art class. But there was also a series of charcoal portraits featuring the city’s panhandlers. The artist had captured their faces in such stark detail that they were, at once, ugly and hauntingly beautiful.
The opposite wall showcased an array of beach and nautical scenes, most of them oil on canvas. As Ray approached the back corner of the café, he spotted the painting Keiko had described. The title of the work was The Suffering of Ages, and it featured a desolate landscape of red rock desert baking beneath a blazing sun. On the right-hand side of the painting, a naked baby crawled through a field of bleeding clocks, his skin pocked with festering sores, his elongated scrotum dragging behind him on the cracked hardpan. Glistening tears ran down his cheeks, transforming into tiny scorpions that dropped to the ground and skittered off in every direction. Toward the top of the canvas, painted in miniature, a man in a suit shoved a toddler into a trash can. On the far left, painted half the size of the baby, an old man lay tangled in a nest of thorns, rivulets of blood seeping from wounds that showed glimpses of bone underneath.
The bottom corner of the painting was signed The Artist, followed by two intertwined infinity symbols in the shape of an “X”. The same symbol appeared in the eyes of the baby and on the backs of the scorpions.
Something about the signature tugged at Ray’s memory—almost like déjà vu—but he couldn’t place it.
Billy moved in beside him. “Looks like death row art.”
“How much you got on you?”
Billy eyed the price. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“Just give me a hundred fifty and I’ll cover the rest. The department will reimburse us.”
Billy groaned. “That’s all I got until we’re reinstated.” He pressed a fistful of bills into Ray’s palm.
Ray pocketed the cash and pulled the painting off the wall. He brought it to the counter and laid it down in front of the barista who’d served them earlier.
The kid looked from Ray to the painting. “Uh, I only do coffee. Let me get the manager.” He disappeared into the back room and returned with a well-dressed Latino man wearing designer glasses and a salt-and-pepper goatee.
“Find something you like?” the manager asked.
“This piece caught my eye,” Ray said. “Do you know the artist?”
“I’ve had that painting up for over a year. You’re the first person to show any interest.”
“Yeah, well I collect surreal paintings. Do you have anything else by this artist? I’d love to see his portfolio.”
“No, but I can get his contact information.” The manager trudged around the counter and retrieved the tag from the wall. He flipped it over and studied the writing on the back. “Looks like he only included his email address. Not even a name, just The Artist. Like he’s Prince or something.” The manager chuckled. “Sounds like he’s suffering from delusions of grandeur.”
“Yeah,” Ray said. “I bet he is.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The kids mobbed Ray as he walked through the front door, racing into his arms as Sparky darted through his legs yipping excitedly. Mr. Snuggles—who until now had been sleeping beneath the foyer table—gave him a dirty look and stalked into the kitchen, flipping his tail in disapproval.
Ray scooped up the kids and threw them on
to the couch. “Tickle attack!” he yelled, and descended upon them with a furious onslaught of belly tickling that left all three kids sweaty and panting for breath.
Michelle stood in the doorway to the living room, her arms folded across her chest. “I love how I bust my butt all day taking care of these kids and you’re the one who comes home to a hero’s welcome.”
“What can I say, it’s my magnetic personality.”
“Is that what you call it?”
Ray slid his hands around her waist. “Don’t worry, I saved some tickle time just for you.”
She slapped his hands away and turned around in a huff.
“What’s the matter?”
Michelle stormed into the kitchen. “As if you didn’t know.”
Ray rolled his eyes and followed her. “Are we playing the guessing game again? Because I hate the guessing game.”
“Figure it out, Ray. Aren’t you supposed to be good at that?”
“Figure what out?”
Michelle whirled around. “Your mother called in a panic and said you were involved in a shoot-out. She couldn’t reach you, and neither could I, so then I started to panic.”
“You never called me.”
“Are you saying I’m a liar, Ray? Check your phone.”
He fished it from his pocket and looked at the recent call list, which showed Michelle’s missed calls sandwiched between his mom’s. Christ, how had he missed that?
“When you didn’t answer, I checked the closet and saw you’d left your vest at home. How long have you been going without it, Ray? I mean, are you kidding me? Do you want the kids to grow up without a father? Or for me to wind up as a single mother?”
“I’m sorry. I promise I won’t skip another day.”
“That’s it? You’re sorry?” She cocked her head and glared at him, her ponytail slicing the air like a scythe. “There was a big shoot-out in the city. The least you could do is check in and let me know you’re okay.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.”
It was ironic that he could stare down a murderous gangster like Flaherty but buckled so easily when it came to his wife—all five-foot-four inches of her.
“Go play with the kids,” she said. “I can’t talk to you right now.”
He exhaled sharply and watched her storm off. How the hell was he supposed to know they mentioned his name on the news? Probably some crime beat reporter listening to a police scanner trying to get an inside scoop. Goddamn irresponsible reporting. He shook his head and slunk into the living room, where Jason and Allie were engaged in their own argument.
“What’s this all about?” he asked.
Jason cocked a thumb at Allie. “She’s afraid to go into the bathroom alone.”
“Is that true?”
Allie nodded, her curly blond hair flopping over her eyes.
“What’s there to be afraid of?”
Her eyes darkened. “Bears.”
Jason pointed to his head and drew an air circle with his finger. “She saw a toilet paper commercial with a cartoon bear and now she won’t go into the bathroom by herself.”
“Allie,” Ray said, “there’s nothing to be afraid of. Kids are very hard to digest, so bears will only eat one every ten years or so.”
Allie eyed him skeptically, her face scrunched up.
“That bear in the bathroom? He ate our first kid seven years ago. You’ve heard us talk about Mikey, right? Great kid. You would’ve liked him.”
“Dad,” Jason said, his face drawn in concern. “I know you’re just teasing.”
“Don’t worry, you’ve got three more years before you need to worry about anything. Just don’t pee on the seat, buddy. Bears hate that.”
“And moms too,” Allie said.
Ray shrugged. “That’s what they get for not being courteous enough to lift the toilet seat when they’re finished.”
Allie and Jason started giggling, but Ray noticed Petey standing by the couch in an Elmo diaper, two fingers curled into his mouth, his eyes as wide as silver dollars.
Michelle stalked into the room and swept Petey into her arms. “Really, Ray? This afternoon wasn’t enough? Now you have to scare the baby? Do you know how many months of potty training you just set us back?”
“I just—”
But Michelle wasn’t waiting for an answer. She kissed Petey on the forehead and stalked out of the room.
Jason and Allie exchanged a glance and started chanting in a sing-song voice, “Daddy’s in trouble, Daddy’s in trouble.”
Ray shook his head. “You ain’t kidding.”
***
Later that night, after tucking the kids into bed, Ray went downstairs to smooth things over with Michelle but found that she’d barricaded herself in the bedroom. He stood in the hallway with his hands on his hips wondering if he should force a discussion or leave her alone.
It was the classic husband Catch 22—damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.
In the end, he decided the locked door probably meant she wasn’t ready to talk, so he grabbed his laptop from the cluttered desk in the kitchen, took a Heineken from the fridge, and mounted the stairs to the roof deck.
Outside, the city lights twinkled against the gathering twilight, a warm breeze carrying the salty scent of the sea. He set the laptop down on the patio table and stared out toward the Bunker Hill Monument, which glowed blue against the darkening sky.
He raised his beer to the city.
Here’s to surviving. Whether by the grace of God or just dumb luck.
He thought about the construction workers who’d died in a hail of bullets, leaving behind wives and children. Ray toasted them as well, remembering his own father’s violent end and the cold shadow of his absence, which lingered like the phantom ache of a lost limb.
Had Ray sat in Garrison’s chair that afternoon, the bullet that lodged into Garrison’s Kevlar vest would’ve struck him instead, and he would’ve bled out on the pavement before the first ambulance arrived. It was a scary thought, but he refused to dwell on it. People spent too much energy focused on what might’ve been and not nearly enough time focused on the here and now. It’s what kept some people stuck in a rut, while others conquered the world.
If you’re not moving, you’re dying.
It was one of his father’s favorite sayings.
He hoisted the Heineken to the sky. “This one’s for you, Dad.”
His eyes welled up unexpectedly and he had to bite his lip to keep it from trembling. The raw emotion of his father’s brutal last moments ran deep, and on nights like this it sometimes clawed its way to the surface. He set the Heineken on the table and touched a finger to his cheek, letting a tear roll over his hand like quicksilver, the city lights reflected in its depths. He imagined a thousand tears in a thousand households across the city, all shed for a thousand different reasons.
He drew a shuddering breath and flicked it over the railing.
If you’re not moving, you’re dying.
He powered up his laptop and drummed his fingers against the table, waiting for their stubborn Wi-Fi to connect. Once online, he created a new Gmail account with the username JP_Art_enthusiast99 and composed a message.
Dear Artist:
I saw your painting at the Particle Bean today and just had to have it. The Suffering of Ages fits perfectly with my collection. I’m a big fan of Surrealism and I’m very impressed by your talent. I would love to see the rest of your portfolio and am willing to spend top dollar.
Can you meet me at the Particle Bean sometime this week? The day after tomorrow, if possible? I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Sincerely,
JP
With that accomplished, he visited the website he’d discovered a few days earlier with the snide comments on Danny the Mule—deaddumbbizzare.com. This time, photos of Finkleton’s death dominated the main page, and a trail of comments followed a shot of Finkleton hanging from the tree in full spider regalia.
; Ray recognized some of the usernames from Danny’s page. A profile picture accompanied each name, but because nobody wanted their real identity linked to such hateful comments, the pictures mainly consisted of sports logos, memes, or pet photos instead.
BigRex: Hey look, it’s Spiderman!
Reba99: Gross! Time to put back on the red and blue pajamas.
SoxFan: I guess being a second-rate superhero finally got to him… he had to put himself out of his misery.
Duff: That dude sure pissed someone off.
GothDiva: Revenge of Little Miss Muffet.
VinnyT: What’s in the bowl, bitch?
GothDiva: That better not be directed at me, VinnyT!
VinnyT: It’s from Andrew Dice Clay, but if the shoe fits…
SoxFan: The Dice Man Cometh!
Stiles44: WTF? I don’t even know where to begin with this one.
TheArtist: It seems the Itsy Bitsy Spider climbed up the wrong waterspout.
Ray’s pulse quickened. Not only was The Artist the same tag name from the painting, but the logo in the profile picture also had the same interlocking infinity symbols. That explained his déjà vu at The Particle Bean. He’d probably seen the same name and symbol on the posts about Danny the Mule.
He toggled over to Danny’s photos and found a post from the Artist about how expressive Danny’s face was. He slapped the table and grinned. “I’ve got you now, you sonofabitch.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It looked like something straight out of The X-Files. A ghostly-white humanoid without limbs sprawled across a steel table, the flesh around its shoulders and groin blistered from cauterization, giving it the appearance of something otherworldly.
Ray leaned against an adjacent autopsy table, clad from head-to-toe in a paper gown, mask, and booties. He was close enough to the body to see what he cared to see, but far enough to avoid the splatter as Tina cracked open Finkleton’s rib cage with a pair of gardening shears.
Doc Death stood to her left, allowing her to take the lead on the procedure. Luis was positioned near Finkleton’s head, manning a plastic cart stocked with a scale and a collection of biohazard containers. A second cart beside Tina contained a sinister array of cutting tools that seemed better suited to a medieval torture chamber.
The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller Page 14