Speaker 1: Content warning. This story contains descriptions of violence, disturbing themes,
and graphic imagery that some listeners may find unsettling. Discretion
is advised.
Speaker 2: Calaroga Shark Media, Hello and Welcome to the Artist. This
episode is titled Masterpiece of.
Speaker 3: Death, Miami, nineteen eighty nine. The sultry heat of the
city clung to Detective Mick Rayes like a second skin
as he navigated his cherry red Ferrari through the neon
drenched streets. Five years had passed since the first twisted
murder that bore the hallmark of the killer known as
the Artist, and the trail had gone colder than a
corpse in a meat locker. Rayes couldn't escape the gnawing
feeling that he was chasing a ghost, a phantom who
danced through the city's most elite circles, leaving a trail
of blood and broken bodies in his wake. The Artist
was a master of his craft, a killer who elevated
death to an art form, and Reyes was beginning to
fear that he would never be able to stop him.
As he pulled up to the crime scene, a swanky
mansion nestled in the heart of coral Gables. Rayes felt
a familiar sense of dread settle into the pit of
his stomach. He knew what he would find inside, another
masterpiece of death, another reminder of his own failings. The
moment he stepped through the door, the cloying scent of
blood and decay hit him like a fist to the gut.
In the center of the opulent living room, splayed out
on the plush white carpeting like a macabre centerpiece. It
was the body of Leonor Ashford, the beautiful young wife
of a prominent Miami art collector. She was naked, her
porcelain skin marred by a latticework of deep, precise cuts
that chris crossed her flesh in an intricate pattern. Her
blonde hair fanned out around her head like a halo,
and her crystal blue eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling,
frozen in an expression of ultimate horror. But it was
the gaping wound in her chest that drew Rayes's gaze.
The ragged hole where her heart had once beaten. It
had been carved out with surgical precision, leaving a yawning
void that seemed to swallow the light. Fucking hell muttered
dis Ramirez, Reyes's partner. He did it again. Reyes fought
back a bitter smile. Five similar crime scenes across Miami,
five women flayed and bloody, one for each year that
he'd been chasing the artist. This was his anniversary gift. January,
the city was caught in the grip of an unseasonable
cold snap. The normally balmy air turned crisp and biting.
Palm trees shivered in the wind, and the beaches were deserted,
save for a few brave college kids down for winter break,
determined to make the most of their fleeting freedom. Detective
Mick Rayes sat at his desk, hunched over a stack
of gruesome crime scene photos, his eyes gritty with fatigue
and frustration. Five years, five damn years he'd been chasing
the artist, and if he didn't solve this thing soon,
there would be one more body. He was just about
to reach for the bottle of cheap whiskey stashed in
his bottom drawer when the phone rang, shrill and insistent.
Rayes snatched it up with a growl, ready to bite
off the head of whoever was on the other end.
Detective Rayes, the voice was cultured urbane, a far cry
from the usual Miamian drawl. So glad I could reach you.
This is Jacques Sinclair. I believe you interviewed me several
years back regarding some ghastly business at one of my galleries.
Reyes felt his chest tightened with the first stirrings of
real hope. Sinclair was a big fish in the art scene,
a collector and dealer with connections to everyone that mattered.
If he was reaching out, maybe he had a lead.
I remember, mister Sinclair, what can I do for you?
He could practically hear the oily charm oozing through the
phone line. There's a rather exclusive soiree happening tonight, Detective,
very hush, hush. I'm sure you understand. The creme de
la creme of Miami Art Society will be in attendance.
I have a sneaking suspicion that someone there may have
some information pertinent to your ongoing investigation. I thought you
might like to attend as my personal guest. Reyes's pulse quickened.
This could be it, This could be the break he needed.
What's the address? I'll be there. As night fell, Reyes
found himself weaving through a crush of penthouse esthetes and
bejeweled grandames. His gut nodding with a mix of anticipation
and dread, he drained the dregs of his third fourth whiskey,
letting the burn ground him as his eyes restlessly scan
the crowd. Somewhere in this glittering assemblage of artists, collectors,
and sinisters lurked a monster in human skin. He could
feel it with the same certainty that told him the
approximate alcohol content of his own blood. The artist was here, watching, waiting.
Then he saw her, a vision in red, sheathed in
a gown that clung to every dangerous curve, raven hair,
porcelain skin, lips you could cut yourself on. She moved
through the masses with liquid grace, trailing hung angry stares
and envious whispers. Rayes felt his mouth go dry, a
primal surge of heat curling low in his gut. He
knew a suspect when he saw one. This was a
woman who could bring a man to his knees and
make him beg for the privilege. As if feeling the
weight of his gaze, she turned their eyes, locking across
the crowded penthouse there was something there, a dark flicker
of recognition, of provocation. She tilted her head, almost imperceptibly,
a silent invitation. Then she turned and melted back into
the throng. Hardly daring to believe his luck, Rayes followed,
pushing through the crush of bodies with single minded purpose.
He tracked her down a hallway, around a corner, finally
cornering her in a shadowed alcove. Easy, she purred, a
hint of mockery in her voice. You'll make a girl
think you're not a gentleman. Rayes swallowed hard, struggling to
keep his composure. I think we both know I'm not
here for gentle miss Valeria, she supplied, her eyes glinting,
Just Valeria, and you're right, gentleness is overrated. With a
speed and strength that caught him utterly off guard, she
spun them, slamming his back against the wall and her
body flush against his. No, why you're really here, she breathed,
her lips a hair's breadth from his ear. You're chasing him,
the artist. You think someone here knows his secrets? Reyes
went still, his cover somehow blown sinclair, a chill snaking
down his spine, despite the liquid heat of her body,
do you, Valeria laughed, low and throaty, sending a shiver
of desire skittering across his nerve endings. There are no
secrets here, Detective, only dark hungers and darker deeds. Maybe
it's better not to look too closely. You might not
like what you see. And then she kissed him, hard
and deep and hungry, her nails raking down his chest.
Rayes groaned into her mouth, hands fisting in her hair,
all thoughts of the case of the killer, of anything
but this moment incinerated in the supernova heat of her touch.
But just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.
Valeria pulled back her lipsticks, smeared, her eyes glittering with
wicked promise. Come find me again, Detective, when you're ready
to see what's hiding in the shadows. Then she turned
on her heel and strutted down the hallway, disappearing back
into the glittering masquerade, leaving Rayes dazed, painfully aroused, and
more certain than ever that he was in over his head.
As he stood there trying to regain his composure, a
waiter glided by with a tray of champagne flutes. Tall
and slender, with dark hair and piercing eyes, he moved
with a graceful, almost feline precision. Something about him niggled
at Rayes's cop instincts, a faint trill of warning. The
waiter paused, turning to face Rayes directly. Their eyes met
held a moment of electric connection, and in that instant,
Rayes saw something flicker in those dark, fathomless depths, something
cold and calculating, a glint of cruel amusement. Then it
was gone, masked by a smooth, professional smile. Champagne, Sir,
the waiter offered, his voice, a cultured purr. Rayes shook
his head, unnerved, without quite knowing why. No, thank you.
The waiter inclined his head a strangely mocking gesture, of course,
enjoy your evening. The next Waring found Reyes haggard and haunted,
hunched over his desk at the precinct, nursing the mother
of all hangovers. He'd barely made it back to his
apartment the night before, head and heart spinning, with whiskey
and confusion and a raw, clawing need that had nothing
to do with the case. Valeria's words echoed in his skull,
taunting him, dark hungers and darker deeds. What was hiding
in the shadows of Miami's glitterati. How deep did the
rot go? And could he unearth it without losing himself
in the process. He had no answers, only a gnawing
sense that time was running out, that somewhere out there
the artist was already planning his next masterpiece, his next
bloody Valentine, and that all the booze and beauty in
the world wouldn't stop the coming storm. It was Ramirez
who found the connection, the pattern that had eluded them
for so long. Every year, on the same date, another body,
another woman, beautiful and butchered, left like a grisly love
letter on the streets of Miami, February fourteenth, Valentine's day.
Now they knew when he would strike next. The only
question was where and who. The answer came in the
form of a gilded invitation slipped under the precinct door
by an anonymous hand, a masquerade ball hosted by none
other than Jacques Sinclair himself on the night of February thirteenth,
an exclusive affair, the Creme de la creme of Miami
Society and scrawled on the back in blood red ink,
a single taunting message, catch me if you can. Detective
Reyes felt his blood run cold, a chill of certainty
snaking down his spine. The Artist was raising the stakes,
issuing a challenge. This was his chance, maybe his last chance,
to end the game once and for all. But he
couldn't do it alone. He needed someone on the inside,
someone who could move through that glittering world of art
and privilege unseen, someone like Valeria.
Speaker 2: Next time on the artist a Killer's canvas.
Speaker 1: The stakes have never been higher for Detective Mick Rayes
as he grapples with the devastating aftermath of the Masquerade Ball.
With Valeria missing and another victim discovered, Rayes finds himself
spiraling into a dark place, questioning everything he thought he
knew about the case. As the body count rises and
the clues become more personal, Rayes must confront his own
demons and face the possibility that he's become entangled in
the Artist's deadly game. With his career on the line
and his sanity hanging by a thread, can ray Us
unravel the mystery before it's too late. Meanwhile, Thomas continues
his reign of terror, leaving a trail of horrifying masterpieces
in his wake. But as he grows bolder, is he
also growing careless. Don't miss episode five, Crimson Palette, where
the Hunter becomes the hunted in a pulse pounding race
against time through Miami's neon lit underbelly.
Speaker 2: The Artist is a Calaogus Shark Media production hosted by
Aidan I Flanagan, written by Aidan I Flanagan and John McDermott,
Produced by Mark Francis. Executive producers John McDermott and Mark Francis.
Portions of the podcast may have been produced with the
assistance of AI. If you enjoyed this series, check out
the inspiration podcast Murder Weekly, available wherever you get your podcasts.
This show is also available commercial free. Check the show
notes for more info and how you can buy merch
for The Artist. Calaroga Shark Media