Ray navigated the Explorer through the usual Back Bay gridlock. “Why wouldn’t I? We’ve never known him to lie before.”
“Maybe he’s the Artist.”
“Come on.”
“Think about it, Ray. What if there wasn’t another kid at The Rock? What if RJ was the one who Danny molested? We know he’s into graffiti, so maybe he could’ve painted The Suffering of Ages. I know you like him and all, but he’s not exactly a Boy Scout. He might have a dark side we don’t know about.”
Ray stared at the line of cars backing up near the Park Plaza hotel. “It doesn’t explain the medical angle. I doubt RJ could perform an amputation and nurse someone back to health.”
“You never know,” Billy said. “You can learn a lot by watching YouTube.”
“What do you know about YouTube?”
“I fixed my dishwasher by watching one of those videos. Saved me three hundred bucks.”
Ray lifted an eyebrow. “What’s an old dog like you doing learning new tricks?”
“You’d better watch yourself, or this old dog’s gonna kick your ass.”
Something about Billy’s comment reminded him of the story Flaherty had told at Finnegan’s Landing. “How come you never told me you grew up in the same complex as Flaherty?”
“I had a pretty shitty childhood. It’s not something I like to talk about.”
“What was Flaherty like back then?”
“He wasn’t someone you wanted to mess with. And not just because he was violent, but because he was unpredictable and violent. And remember, I grew up with a lot of tough guys. Our neighborhood was full of them. But crazy beats tough every time.”
“How well did you know him?”
“He’s a few years older than me and he dropped out of school to work construction, so our paths never really crossed. Except for this one time at the park.”
“What happened?”
“I was shooting some hoops, glad to be away from our shitty apartment and my dad’s drunken fists. I was probably fourteen at the time. And I’d only been there for a few minutes before a couple punks showed up and started ripping on me for missing a layup. These guys—Pat and Brian—they had at least four years on me and were seasoned street fighters, so there was no way I could take them. But I also didn’t want to run off the court like a pussy, so I tried my best to ignore them. They obviously didn’t like the silent treatment, because when I went for another layup, Pat took out my legs while I was in the air and I did a belly flop onto the concrete. I rolled onto my back and tried to get up, but Brian hauled off and kicked me in the nuts. I could hear them laughing as I tried to crawl away. A few seconds later, they went dead silent and I looked up and saw Jack Flaherty striding onto the court with an ice-cold look in his eyes. He must’ve been on his way home from a job because he was carrying one of those steel construction worker’s lunchboxes. I’ll never forget the expression on Pat’s and Brian’s faces—they weren’t sure if Flaherty was going to attack them or join in.
“That question got answered when Flaherty headbutted Brian and drove a knee into his stomach. Brian dropped to the concrete without saying a word, and he ended up being the lucky one. Pat put up his fists and smirked at Flaherty, like he’d been waiting a long time for a shot at the title. But Flaherty never broke stride. He tackled Pat at the foul line and started bashing his face with the lunchbox, swinging his arm like he was chopping wood with a hatchet. Pat barely made a sound—I think because he was choking on his own teeth—and all I could hear was the meaty thud of metal pounding flesh. I caught a glimpse of Pat’s face as I ran away. It was a caved-in mask of blood, except for the few places where I could see the gleam of bone underneath. I thought for sure he was dead, but somehow he pulled through. In the end, he lost most of his teeth and half of his wits. I still see him from time to time wandering the streets of Southie with a spaced-out expression on his face.”
“Christ,” Ray said. “Was Flaherty ever prosecuted?”
“What do you think? Even back then, he was a master of fear and intimidation.”
“What was his brother like?”
“Tom? He stayed out of trouble. I don’t think he was squeaky clean, but next to Jack he was a golden boy.”
Ray tapped a finger against the steering wheel.
“I know that look,” Billy said. “You want to question the mayor.”
“What other choice do we have?”
“We could lose our jobs.”
“Come on,” Ray said. “Coleman’s lead about Suzie’s ex-boyfriend is a dead end. We’ve gotten no credible tips from releasing the Artist’s painting to the media. And Jack Flaherty’s gonna give us jack squat. So why not see if we can at least squeeze a name out of the mayor?”
“Because I don’t want to get fired. And you shouldn’t either.”
Ray clenched his jaw and steered the car into the precinct’s parking lot. “You really are a sucker for fear and intimidation, aren’t you, Billy?”
***
“You’re late,” Agent Dearborn said.
Ray strode past the bullpen and motioned for the agents to follow him into the briefing room. “What can I say? Traffic’s a bitch.”
“What’s all this?” Calhoun asked, eyeballing the photos of the Artist’s victims. “You guys got a serial on your hands?”
“Starting to look that way.”
He didn’t like how the agents were studying the whiteboards. Dearborn, especially, wore a haughty expression, as if he thought everything they’d done on the case was amateurish.
“What’s so important you two trekked all the way down here to talk to me?” Ray asked.
“We got the green light on the sting,” Dearborn said, “but Larry’s getting cold feet. Says he’d be more comfortable if you were there.” He rolled his eyes. “Fucking prima donna.”
“When is it?”
“Monday at noon.”
“Where?”
“You don’t need to know that right now.”
“What, are you afraid I’ll tip off Flaherty?”
“The less people who know the details, the better. Just show up at FBI headquarters at eleven.”
“On one condition,” Ray said. “You have that name for me by the middle of next week.”
Dearborn furrowed his brow. “What name?”
Calhoun said, “He’s been asking about a woman who stripped at the Puma a decade ago.”
“What do you need that for?” Dearborn asked. “Billy looking for a new girlfriend?”
Ray gestured to the wall of victims. “She’s a person of interest in this case. And, right now, all I’ve got is her first name and a stage name.”
Dearborn looked at Calhoun. “Can we make that happen?”
“I’ll get someone focused on the personnel records,” Calhoun said. “If her details are in there, we’ll find them.”
Dearborn nodded. “So, what do you say, detective? Are you in?”
“Yeah,” Ray said, “I’m in.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Allie crawled across the stage wearing a furry gray costume with black horns, and after weaving around a handful of kids dressed as trees and rocks, she set foot onto a plywood bridge spanning a narrow river.
She made it three steps before a voice bellowed, “Who’s that trip trapping across my bridge?”
“It’s only me,” Allie replied, “the littlest billy goat Gruff. I’m on my way to the hillside to where the sweet grass grows, and I am going to eat it all up until I am nice and fat.”
Ray watched the scene unfold in miniature on his iPhone while recording Allie’s acting debut. She’d barely slept the night before, terrified that she’d forget her lines. Thankfully, she’d nailed the first one and seemed to be settling down.
“Now I’m coming to gobble you up!” the troll yelled, leaping into view. It was just Ethan Morrison from next door in a rubber monster’s mask, but Allie nearly jumped out of her skin.
Ray nudged Jacob, who was sit
ting to his left. “Either Allie’s a great actress or I’m gonna need to take that costume to the dry cleaners.”
From the stage, Allie said, “Please don’t eat me. I’m much too little and will hardly fill your belly. You should wait for my brother, since he is much bigger than I.”
When the play ended, the audience erupted in applause. The kids joined hands and took a bow, their faces beaming. Michelle blew kisses to Allie and to Jason, who’d landed a last-minute role as an oak tree.
Ray turned toward Jacob and Megan as the applause died down. “Welcome to Friday night after kids. You sure you want to go through with it?”
“Are you kidding?” Megan said. “That was adorable.”
Jacob shrugged. “I’m just in it for the sex.”
“Better not get used to that,” Ray said, clapping him on the back.
When the lights came on, they filed out of their seats and shuffled into the main aisle, where Ray fell into step with his neighbor Tommy Morrison.
“Kids did good, huh?” Tommy said.
Ray nodded. “I don’t know where they found that mask for Ethan, but Allie’s gonna have nightmares for weeks.”
Tommy motioned for Ray to slow up. “I don’t know if you heard this or not,” he said, lowering his voice, “but Darren Boyle made bail yesterday. Donnegan saw him getting liquored up at Quinn’s. Apparently, he was telling anyone who would listen that you set him up.”
“How the hell would he know that?”
“Beats me, but he says he’s gonna make you pay.”
Ray chewed his lip, calculating the odds a guy like Darren Boyle would risk more jail time for a shot at revenge. “It’s probably just trash talk.”
“That’s what I figured,” Tommy said, “but I wanted you to know.”
Ray patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Tommy. I appreciate the heads-up.”
“No problem. I gotta catch up with Pauline. See you later.”
Ray watched Tommy push ahead through the crowd.
“You can’t tell me you’re not worried about that,” Jacob said.
Ray shrugged. “Guys like that are all talk. All they care about is looking tough in front of their buddies.”
“Shouldn’t you file a report or something?”
“Don’t sweat it, little brother. It’s all part of the job.”
“Still, I’d be nervous.”
“That’s because you’ve got soft hands and fancy socks.”
By the time they reached the parking lot, Michelle and Megan had loaded the kids into the family car. “We’ll meet you at the ice cream shop,” Michelle said. “These kids are jonesing for a sugar fix.”
Allie rolled down the window and stuck out her tongue. “Hurry up, slow pokes!”
“We’ll see you there,” Ray said.
As they approached Jacob’s flashy sports coupe, a voice called out from behind them.
“Detective Hanley, what a coincidence.”
Ray felt his hackles go up even before he turned around. “Go ahead,” he said to Jacob. “I’ll just be a minute.”
After Jacob climbed into the car, Ray walked over to where Flaherty stood beside a vintage black Camaro. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s not a good feeling, is it, detective? Someone breathing down your neck wherever you go?”
“Actually, you saved me a trip. I’ve got some questions about your brother.”
“Is that so?”
“I hear he knocked up a stripper when he first made city council. Kept it real hush hush. I hear she used to bring the kid around while she turned tricks at The Rock.”
“Now why would you dredge up such ugly rumors about my family?”
“Where’s your nephew these days? I’d love to talk to him. I hear he’s been up to no good.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Flaherty said. “Why don’t you ask my brother? By the way, how’d you like those pictures I left you?”
Ray bristled. He should’ve known it was Flaherty. “Don’t ever come near my house again. Do you understand?”
“I don’t know who that girl was, detective, but she sure looked hungry.”
Ray had a feeling Flaherty knew exactly who Tina was, but now wasn’t the time to call him on it. “What do you want?”
“Some breathing room. I don’t meddle in your business, and you don’t meddle in mine.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then it’s bye-bye happy family.”
Ray clenched his jaw, but said nothing.
“We all have secrets, detective. But I think the real measure of a man is how far he’s willing to go to keep them.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“That’s the plan?” Ray asked, standing in the FBI briefing room. “That’s the best you could come up with?” He shook his head. “I don’t like it.”
“Well, that’s tough shit,” Agent Dearborn said, “because your opinion doesn’t matter.”
Ray stared through the glass wall of the conference room to where Larry sat in the reception area with a magazine draped over his lap, one leg jittering so much that reading even a sentence would be impossible. But Larry wasn’t focused on the magazine. His gaze was directed at the conference room, no doubt wondering what was being discussed inside. But all he’d be able to see was a vague shifting of shadows.
“Larry was briefed on the risks,” Dearborn said, “and he’s agreed to accept them, so unless anyone’s got a tactical question, I’d say it’s time to get this operation underway.”
***
Dearborn had selected a white box truck with MBTA decals for their surveillance vehicle. It was parked across the street from the Dunkin’ Donuts on West Broadway behind a broken-down MBTA bus with its hazards flashing. It was a decent enough cover, but a bit more conspicuous than Ray would’ve liked, especially this close to The Rock.
Inside the truck, an array of high-tech electronics filled the back wall of the cargo area and a burly agent named Blackstone manned the equipment from a rolling desk chair. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt with a paisley tie and was sweating as though he’d recently completed a 5K. As Blackstone leaned over the console to test the connection, Ray caught a whiff of BO and had to breathe into the crook of his arm to keep from gagging. He tilted his head toward the portable air conditioner in the corner and watched the monitor over Blackstone’s shoulders. The screen displayed a clear view of Broadway looking southeast past the T-station, capturing both Finnegan’s Landing and The Rock.
Ray cleared his throat and turned to Dearborn. “You said Larry’s not wired. So where’s the listening device?”
“That’s none of your concern,” Dearborn said.
“It is my concern. Larry asked for me because he doesn’t trust you to look out for him.”
Dearborn shook his head and turned away.
“It’s with one of our agents inside the restaurant,” Calhoun said. “Along with a couple of extenders placed in strategic locations. It’s programmed to recognize both Larry’s voice and Flaherty’s. It can also filter out background noise or any conversations we deem irrelevant.”
Ray lifted an eyebrow. That beat anything the police department had at its disposal. Just like the feds to keep the best technology for themselves. He shifted his attention back to the monitor and studied the flow of pedestrian traffic. After a few moments, he spotted Larry at the top of the screen. He had just exited the subway station and was walking south along Broadway wearing a backpack filled with $25,000.
It was a few days shy of the collection deadline, so Flaherty wouldn’t be expecting him. Normally, Flaherty’s henchmen would come knocking, rather than the other way around. The plan was for Larry to deliver half of his debt to Flaherty and ask for a three-week extension on the rest.
Somewhere behind Larry, an undercover agent was supposed to be disguised as a businessman, which likely just meant he was carrying a copy of the Wall Street Journal. Ray scanned the crowd for a moment and then pointed to the
screen. “Is that your guy?” he asked, gesturing to a medium-built man in a charcoal suit.
Dearborn frowned. “How the hell did you know?”
“Because you all have that same cocky swagger. They teach you that at Quantico, or what? Right after Advanced Hair Gel Mechanics?”
“Fuck off,” Dearborn said, “or I’ll bounce you from the van.”
“During the middle of a sting? Probably not the smartest idea. And let’s not forget who arrested Larry in the first place.”
Dearborn poked a finger into Ray’s sternum. “Just shut your mouth and stay out of my way.”
“What did I tell you about that finger?”
Calhoun grabbed Dearborn’s arm and drew him back. “We can’t afford to get distracted.”
Dearborn grunted and turned back to the monitor.
Blackstone motioned them over. “Larry’s headed into the restaurant.”
“Get me the audio,” Dearborn snapped.
Blackstone clacked away at his keyboard and the van filled with the bustling sounds of a lunchtime restaurant crowd. The monitor displayed a chart with a dozen sound waves in various colors. Blackstone clicked on a series of them, adjusting the settings up or down. After a few moments, they could hear Larry’s voice.
“I’m looking for Jack Flaherty.”
“And who the hell’re you?” replied a man with an Irish brogue.
“Larry Reynolds. You can tell him I have his money.”
“He expecting you?”
No answer, which probably meant that Larry had nodded, something he’d been coached not to do.
“Wait here.”
Ray concentrated on the video. He could make out several tables through the plate glass windows of Finnegan’s Landing, but he couldn’t see all the way to the bar where Larry was supposed to be.
Agent Dearborn picked up a headset from the equipment console and spoke into the mic. “Morgan, do you have a visual?”
“Affirmative,” Agent Morgan replied. “Suspect is approaching the bar.”
Suddenly, Flaherty’s voice filled the surveillance vehicle. “You’ve got a lot of balls coming in here. Or maybe just half a brain. So which is it?”
The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller Page 20