CHAPTER FORTY
AIDAN
“Pull up a seat,” the detective said.
I jumped straight into it. “I believe Chris Wilde was murdered.”
He nodded slowly. “Probably.”
I shrugged and held my hands out. “What does that mean?”
“Look, Aidan, I’ve spoken to the chief of police. They’re not taking it further.”
“But you agree it was foul play.”
The older man, whose face had more lines than a map, looked back at me with a deadpan expression.
I wasn’t going to take that poker-faced nothingness as an answer. I sat forward. “Did they analyze the syringe for fingerprints?”
“Aidan, I believe it’s a closed case. The department doesn’t like spending money on junkies.”
“Chris was more than a fucking junkie.” My voice trembled. “He was probably one of the country’s finest artists. I’ve seen plenty, and the guy had fucking talent dripping off him. He also helped a bunch of vets by inspiring them out of their torn shells to create great art. He has done more for this country than many that I know of.”
He nodded slowly. “We can’t do an autopsy unless there’s some evidence of tampering. Or unless his family demands it. He has no family, Aidan.”
I removed a checkbook from my pocket. “How much do you want? I’ll pay for it.”
“Put it away. It’s not going to happen.” There was something in his face that showed frustration.
“Why? What do you know, Detective? Look, if I have to hire my own private dick, I will, you know? I already contracted one when that body washed up.”
“Yeah, that was timely. The FBI had a file this long on him.” His arm stretched out.
“A hitman, yeah, and we know who hired him, don’t we?” My tone had gone acrid.
“That’s impossible to prove.”
“Why? I mean, you knew this dude was a contracted killer. Surely you’ve been able to study his digital footprint.”
“That’s the FBI. They’re not letting us in on it. But I can tell you he covered his tracks well. Have you heard of the deep, dark web?”
“Of course, I have. Drug dealers, sleazy assholes like pedophiles and the like,” I said.
“It’s more than that. There’s all kinds of sons of bitches in there, plying and peddling their nasty wares. Including hitmen. That’s where they get their contracts. It’s so complex that even the FBI can’t crack it.”
“Are you telling me you have nothing on Jessica Mansfield? Apart from the kidnapping incident. You’ve got evidence of that, don’t you? Or has that been whitewashed, as well?” Rage burned in my voice.
He stared at me long and hard. In his eyes, I saw an empty shell of a man who I suspected had seen it all and had chosen a cave to hide himself in.
“I’m going to tell you something, Aidan. It didn’t come from me.”
“What?”
“John Mansfield’s got the head of the LAPD on his payroll. He’s one of those seriously rich guys that can buy himself and his daughter out of trouble.”
“Well then, I’m one of those fucking seriously rich guys who can and will buy fucking justice,” I said, slapping his desk.
My eyes remained locked on his dismissive, weakened visage. Dogged determination impelled me to stay put. I wasn’t leaving that office until I was given something.
He nodded pensively. “Fingerprints had been wiped on the syringe.”
His eyes pierced me with something hard to read. Finally, he gave me a way in.
“Then what are we going to do, Detective? Do I have to bring in my own investigator? Or are you happy to take my cash and deliver justice the way it should be delivered—honestly? Surely that’s why you exist in this role—to bring down crooked assholes?”
His lips turned up at one side. “That’s why I joined. But this place is littered with crooked cops, all the way up. I know that well enough. I also know that John Mansfield has plenty of blood on his greasy, well-manicured hands. He’s involved with a cartel from Columbia. He’s my little secret mission. Secret because the department will shut it down if it knows I’m casing him.”
I opened the checkbook and wrote a check for fifty thousand dollars. “Here, for your campaign. But you must promise to find the fucker that killed Chris.”
He took the check and looked at it for a long while before passing it back to me. “No. I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I joined the police force for good. I don’t want to be like those assholes on the take.”
I took the check back. “I want his head on a block, Detective.” I stood up. “I will not stop until he and that daughter of his have their day in court.”
Hudson stretched back his arms. “Leave it to me. I’ve got a few contacts and a few good cops on my side.”
I rose. “I want to arrange a proper funeral for Chris.”
He stared at me for a moment, as if he was trying to figure me out. “You’ll have to arrange that through the mortuary. I’ll get those details to you later today.”
*****
Chris’s studio was crammed with wall-to-wall people. I’d decided to have the service there. At first, Clarissa tried to convince me to have it at a chapel, but I argued that Chris was too much of an atheist and that he’d be pissed off. Clarissa nodded with a faint smile as we recalled the late artist’s scathing cynicism toward religion.
Dressed in a black dress that did nothing to hide her beauty, Clarissa came to me. She’d been working tirelessly, curating an exhibition of Chris’s works to be hung in time for the service.
I held out my arm so that she could stand tight against me.
“I can’t believe how many people there are,” she said.
“I suppose word gets out quickly in these circles,” I said, looking about. There were mainly women. Most of whom, I speculated, Chris had probably been intimate with.
“Hey, Aidan,” said Roy, who was looking unslept and pale.
“Roy, how are you, man?” I asked.
His bloodshot eyes widened slightly. “I’ve been better. I liked Chris. Not just because he was my teacher, but he was a good guy. He had a big heart. He may not have shown it. He didn’t do this, you know?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I know.”
“He’d stopped shooting up. He told me that. He was smoking it instead,” said Roy.
“I didn’t know that. It would be useful if you gave a statement to the cops about that.”
His face fired up for the first time. “Anything to catch the fucking prick who did this.”
He bowed his head and shuffled off.
It was a moving service, with many declarations of respect and love for a man who claimed to be a lone wolf.
After the service, we took the ashes to Venice, where we scattered them out to sea.
The ride home was a silent one, which suited me. I wasn’t good with funerals. I wasn’t good with death. Period.