Cause to Kill (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 1) (6 page)

She stared back at him, wondering.

“
Get along and stop bothering me with your bullshit!
” he
snapped.

A tense silence blanketed the room.

“Dylan, start acting like a supervisor! Don’t call me with every
whiny detail. Learn how to handle your people on your own. And you,” he said to
Avery, “you better cut out the wacky humor act and the I-don’t-give-a-shit
attitude and start acting like you care for once, because I
know
you
do.” He stared at her for a long time. “Dylan and I have been waiting on you
for hours. You want to turn off your radio? Not answer phones? Maybe it helps
you think? Good for you. You go right ahead. But when a superior calls, you
call them back. The next time this happens, you’re off the case. Understood?”

Avery nodded, feeling humbled.

“Understood,” she said.

“Got it.” Dylan nodded.

“Good,” O’Malley said.

He stood taller and smiled.

“Now, I should have done this sooner but there’s no better time
than the present. Avery Black, I’d like you to meet Dylan Connelly, divorced
father of two. Wife left him two years ago because he never came home and he
drank too much. Now they live in Maine and he never gets to see his kids, so
he’s pissed off all the time.”

Dylan stiffened and was about to speak, but said nothing.

“And Dylan? Meet Avery Black, former criminal defense attorney
that screwed up and released one of the world’s worst serial killer onto the
streets of Boston, a man that killed again and destroyed her life. She leaves
behind a multimillion-dollar gig, an ex-husband, and a kid that barely talks to
her. And, like you, she’s usually drowning her sorrows in work and alcohol. You
see? You two have more in common than you think.”

He turned deadly serious.

“Don’t embarrass me again, or you’re
both
off the case.”

Left alone in the conference room together, Avery and Dylan sat
across from each other for a few moments in absolute silence. Neither one of
them moved. His head was low. A grimace lined his face and he seemed to be
mulling something over. For the first time, Avery felt some sympathy for him.

“I know what it’s like—” she began.

Dylan stood up so fast and stiffly that his chair slid back and
hit the wall.

“Don’t think this changes
anything
,” he said. “You and I
are nothing alike.”

Although his menacing body language emanated anger and distance,
his eyes said something different. Avery was sure he was on the verge of a
breakdown. Something the captain had said affected him, just like it had
affected her. They were both damaged, lonely. Alone.

“Look,” she offered, “I just thought.”

Dylan turned away and opened the door. His profile on the way out
confirmed her fears: there were tears in his bloodshot eyes.

“Dammit,” she whispered.

Nights were the worst for Avery. She had no steady group of
friends anymore, no real hobbies other than the job, and she was so tired that
she couldn’t imagine doing more legwork. By herself at the large, blond table,
she hung her head low and dreaded what came next.

The way out of the office was like every other day, only there was
a charged feeling in the air, and many on the force were even more emboldened
by her front page story.

“Hey, Black,” someone called and pointed to her cover photo. “Nice
face.”

Another officer tapped on the image of Howard Randall.

“This story says you two were very close, Black. You into
gerontophilia? You know what that means? It means you like to fuck old people.”

“You guys are hilarious.” She smiled and shot her fingers out like
guns.

“
Fuck you
, Black.”

* * *

A white BMW was parked in the garage; five years old, dirty and
worn. Avery had bought it at the height of her success as a defense attorney.

What were you thinking? she mused. Why would anyone buy a
white
car?

Success, she remembered. The white BMW had been bright and flashy,
and she wanted everyone to know she was a
boss
. Now, it was a reminder
of her failed life.

Avery’s apartment was on Bolton Street in South Boston. She owned
a small two-bedroom on the second floor of a two-story building. The place was
a downgrade from her former penthouse high-rise, but it was spacious and neat,
with a nice terrace where she could sit and relax after a hard day’s work.

The living room was an open space with shaggy brown carpeting. The
kitchen was to the right of the front door, and separated from the rest of the
room by two large islands. There were no plants or animals. A northern exposure
ensured the apartment was usually dark. Avery threw her keys on the table and
shed the rest of her belongings: gun, shoulder harness, walkie-talkie, badge,
belt, phone, and wallet. She undressed on the way to the shower.

After a long soak to process the events of the day, she put on a
robe, grabbed a beer from the fridge, then her phone, and headed out to the
terrace.

Nearly twenty missed calls flashed on her cell, along with ten new
messages. Most of them were from Connelly and O’Malley. There was a lot of
screaming.

Sometimes Avery was so single-minded and driven she refused to
pick up for anyone that wasn’t essential to her task, especially when all of
the pieces hadn’t been put together; today was one of those days.

She scrolled down through last numbers dialed—and all the people
that had called her in the past month. Not a single one was her daughter, or
her ex-husband.

Suddenly, she missed them both.

Numbers were dialed.

The phone rang.

A message answered: “Hi, this is Rose. I’m not here right now to
take your call, but if you leave a brief message, and your name and number,
I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks so much.”
Beep.

Avery hung up.

She toyed with the idea of calling Jack, her ex. He was a good
man, her college sweetheart with a heart of gold: a truly decent person. They’d
had a torrid affair when she was eighteen, and she, with a sickening ego after
her dream job, had ruined everything.

For years, she blamed other people about the split, and for the
rift with her daughter: Howard Randall for his lies, her old boss, the money,
the power, and all those people she had to constantly entertain and beguile to
stay one step ahead of the truth: Little by little, her clients had become less
reliable, and still she wanted to keep going, to ignore the truth, to bend
justice one way or the other—simply to win. Only one more case, she often told
herself. Next time, I’ll defend someone
truly
innocent and set the
record straight.

Howard Randall had been that case.

I’m innocent
, he’d cried at their first meeting.
These students are my
life. Why would I hurt one of them?

Avery had believed him, and for the first time in a long time, she
had begun to believe in
herself
. Randall was a world-renowned psychology
professor at Harvard, in his sixties, with no motive and no known history of
his unhinged personal beliefs. More than that, he appeared weak and broken, and
Avery had always wanted to defend the weak.

When she got him off, it was the highlight of her career, the
highest of heights—that is, until he purposely killed again to expose her as a
fraud.

All Avery had wanted to know was: why?

Why would you it? she’d asked him once in his cell. Why would you
lie and set me up, just to go to prison for the rest of your life?

Because I knew you could be saved,
Howard had replied.

Saved
, Avery thought.

Is this salvation? she wondered and viewed her surroundings. Here?
Now? No friends? No family? A beer in hand and a new life hunting down killers
to make amends for my past? She took a swig of her drink and shook her head. No,
this isn’t salvation. At least not yet.

Her thoughts turned to the killer.

A picture of him had begun to form in her mind: quiet, lonely,
desperate for attention, a specialist with herbs and corpses. She ruled out an
alcoholic or drug addict. He was too careful. The minivan harked to a family,
but his actions seemed to indicate a family was what he
wanted
, not what
he
had
.

Her mind swirling with thoughts and images, Avery downed two more
beers before she suddenly fell asleep in her cozy outdoor chair.

In her dreams, Avery was with her family again.

Her ex was an athletic man with cropped brown hair and dazzling
green eyes. Avid climbers, they were on a hike together with their daughter,
Rose; she was only sixteen and had already received an early admission to
Brandeis College, even though she was only a junior in high school, but in the
dream she was six. They were all singing and walking along a path surrounded by
dense trees. Dark birds fluttered and cried out before the trees morphed into a
shadowy monster and a knife-like hand stabbed Rose in the chest.

“No!” Avery screamed.

Another hand stabbed Jack and both he and her daughter were
hoisted away.

“No! No! No!” Avery cried.

The monster lowered.

Dark lips whispered in her ear.

There is no justice.

Avery jolted awake to the sound of incessant ringing. She was
still on the terrace in her robe. The sun had already come up. Her phone
continued to blare.

She picked up.

“Black.”

“Yo Black!” Ramirez answered. “Don’t you ever pick up? I’m
downstairs. Get your shit together and get out here. I’ve got coffee and sketch
samples.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“Give me five minutes,” she said and hung up.

The dream continued to permeate her thoughts. Sluggishly, Avery
rose and headed into the apartment. Her head pounded. Faded blue jeans were
tugged on. A white T-shirt was made respectable by a black blazer. Three chugs
of orange juice and a downed granola bar was breakfast. On the way out, Avery
glanced at herself in the mirror. Her attire, and her morning meal, were a far
cry from thousand-dollar suits and daily breakfast at the finest restaurants.
Get over it, she thought. You’re not here to look pretty. You’re here to bring
in the bad guys.

Ramirez handed her a cup of coffee in the car.

“Looking good, Black,” he joked.

As always, he appeared to be the model of perfection: dark blue
jeans, a light-blue button-down shirt, and a dark-blue jacket with light-brown
belt and shoes.

“You should be a model,” Avery grumbled, “not a cop.”

A smile displayed his perfect teeth.

“Actually, I
did
do a little modeling once.”

He pulled out of the breezeway and headed north.

“You get any sleep last night?” he asked.

“Not much. How about you?”

‘“I slept like a baby,” he said proudly. “I
always
sleep
well. None of this gets to me, you know? I like to let it
ride
,” he said
and waved his hand through the air.

“Any updates?”

“Both boys were home last night. Connelly put a watch on them just
to make sure they didn’t bolt. He also talked to the dean to get some
information and make sure no one freaks out about a bunch of plainclothes cops
hanging around campus. Neither kid has a file. Dean said they’re both good boys
from good families. We’ll see today. Nothing yet from Sarah on the facial
recognition. We should hear something this afternoon. A few dealerships called
me back with names and numbers. I’m just going to keep a list for a while and
see what happens. You see the morning paper?”

“No.”

He pulled it out and threw it on her lap. In big, bold letters,
the headline read “Murder at Harvard.” There was another picture from Lederman
Park, along with a smaller photo of the Harvard campus. The article inside
rehashed the editorial from the previous day and included a smaller picture of
Avery and Howard Randall from their days in court together. Cindy Jenkins was
mentioned by name but there was no photo given.

“Slow day in the news?” Avery said.

“She’s a white girl from Harvard,” Ramirez replied, “of course
it’s big news. We gotta keep those white kids safe.”

Avery raised a brow.

“That sounds vaguely racist.”

Ramirez vigorously nodded.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “I’m probably a little racist.”

They wove through the streets of South Boston and headed over the
Longfellow Bridge and into Cambridge.

“Why’d you become a cop?” she asked.

“I
love
being a cop,” he said. “Father was a cop,
grandfather was a cop, and now I’m a cop. Went to college and got bumped up
quick. What’s not to love? I get to carry a gun and wear a badge. I just bought
myself a boat. I go out on the bay, chill out, catch some fish, and then catch
some killers. Doing God’s work.”

“Are you religious?”

“Nah,” he said, “just superstitious. If there
is
a god, I
want him to know I’m on his side, you know what I mean?”

No, Avery thought, I don’t.

Her father had been an abusive man, and while her mother
faithfully went to church and prayed to God, she was more of a fanatic than
anything else.

The voice from her dream returned.

There is no justice.

You’re wrong, Avery replied. And I’m going to prove it.

* * *

Most Harvard seniors lived off-campus in some of the residential
housing units owned by the school. George Fine was no exception.

Peabody Terrace was a large high-rise set along the Charles River
near Akron Street. The white, twenty-four-story building included an expansive
outdoor patio, beautiful lawns, and a clear view across the river for those
students lucky enough to be placed on the higher floors; George was one of
them.

A number of buildings connected Peabody Terrace. George Fine lived
in Building E on the tenth floor. Ramirez parked his car along Akron Street and
they made their way inside.

“Here’s his picture,” Ramirez said. “He should be asleep right
now. His first class isn’t until ten thirty.”

The image was a smaller crop of a larger picture pulled of the
Internet. It showed a disgruntled, extremely cocky student with oily black hair
and dark eyes. A slight grin was on his face; he seemed to be challenging the
photographer to find a flaw with his perfection. A strong jaw and pleasant features
made Avery wonder why he was called a weirdo. He looks confident, she thought.
So why stalk a girl that obviously has no interest in him?

Ramirez flashed his badge at the doorman.

“You got problems?” the doorman asked.

“We’ll know soon enough,” Ramirez replied.

They were waved up.

On the tenth floor, they turned left and walked down a long
hallway. Carpets were tan brown swirls. Doors were painted glossy white.

Ramirez knocked on Apartment 10E.

“George,” he said, “you around?”

After a brief silence, someone said: “Get lost.”

“
Police
,” Avery interrupted and banged on the door. “Open
up.”

Silence again, then ruffling and then more silence.

“Come on,” Avery called. “We don’t have all day. We just want to
ask you a few questions.”

“You got a warrant?”

Ramirez raised his brows.

“Kid knows his stuff. Must be
ivy
educated.”

“We can have a warrant in about an hour,” Avery called out, “but
if you make me leave and jump through hoops, I’m going to be pissed. I already
feel like shit, today. You
don’t
want to see me pissed off, too. We just
want to talk about Cindy Jenkins. We heard you knew her. Open the door and I’ll
be your best friend.”

The bolt unlocked.

“You really
do
have a way with people,” Ramirez realized.

George appeared in a tank top and sweatpants, extremely muscular
and toned. He was about 5’6”, the same height Avery associated with the killer
based on Cindy’s records. Despite the look of someone that was either on drugs
or who hadn’t slept in days, a fearlessness burned in his stare. Avery wondered
if he’d been bullied for years and had finally decided to strike back.

“What do you want?” he said.

“Can we come in?” she asked.

“No, we can do this right here.”

Ramirez put his foot inside the room.

“Actually,” he said, “we’d rather come in.”

George looked from Avery to Ramirez—to the foot holding the door
open. Resolved, he shrugged and backed away.

“Come on in,” he said. “I have nothing to hide.”

The room was large for a double occupancy, with a living space,
terrace, two beds on opposite sides of the room, and a kitchen area. One bed
was neatly made and piled with clothing and electronic equipment; the other one
was a mess.

George sat on the messy bed. Hands beside him, he gripped the
mattress. He appeared ready to lurch forward at any moment.

Ramirez stood by the terrace window and admired the view.

“This is some place,” he said. “Only a studio, but grand. Look at
this view.
Wow
. You must love looking out at the river.”

“Let’s get this over with,” George said.

Avery pulled a chair and sat down facing George.

“We’re looking into the murder of Cindy Jenkins,” she said. “We
thought you might be able to help us, seeing as you were one of the last people
to see her alive.”

“A lot of people saw her alive.”

The words were meant to sound tough, but there was pain in his
eyes.

“We were under the impression you liked her.”

“I
loved
her,” he said. “What does that matter? She’s gone
now. No one can help me.”

Ramirez and Avery shared a look.

“What does that mean?” Ramirez asked.

“The way I understand it,” Avery said, “you left the party right
after her.”

“I didn’t kill her,” he declared, “if that’s what you mean. I left
the party because she practically stumbled out of the door. I was worried about
her. I couldn’t find her when I got downstairs. I had to say goodbye to a few
people. Ask around. That’s the truth.”

“Why would you need to say goodbye to anyone?” Ramirez asked. “If
you were in love with her, and worried, why wouldn’t you just help?”

“Talk to my lawyer.”

“You’re hiding something,” Ramirez pointed out.

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Prove it.”

George lowered his gaze and shook his head.

“She ruined my life,” he said. “She ruined my life and now you’re
trying to ruin my life too. You think you’re so important.”

Ramirez gave Avery a look as if to say
this kid is loco
!
and moved out to admire the spectacular view from the terrace.

Avery knew better. She’d seen his type before, both as an attorney
and a cop. There was something damaged about him, and powerful. Coiled and
ready to strike, she thought, just like some of the gang members she’d
interviewed: an innocence mixed with indignation that quickly turned to
violence. A hand went to her belt. Her fingers slid close to her holster
without actually making a move toward the gun.

“What did you mean by that, George?” she asked.

When he looked up, his body was flexed. A wild grimace marred his
features. Eyes were wide and lips pulled in. He cringed. On the verge of tears,
he sucked it back.

“
I matter
,” he cried.

A cocky swagger took over. He stood up and extended his arms wide.
Tears came and surprised him, and he then he gave in to the tears.

“
I matter
,” he sobbed and squatted down.

Avery stood up and moved away, hand close to her gun.

“What’s this all about?” Ramirez asked.

“Leave him alone,” Avery said.

Oblivious to the desperation that reeked out of their broken
suspect, Ramirez squatted down beside George and said: “Hey, man, it’s OK. If
you did it, just admit it. Maybe you’re crazy or something. We can get you
help. That’s why we’re here.”

George stiffened and went still.

A whisper came from his lips.

“I’m not crazy,” he said, “I’m just sick of you people.”

As deftly as a trained soldier, a hand went behind his back and
pulled a hidden blade. In the next instant, he spun around Ramirez and clinched
his neck. He quickly stabbed his right side, just below his chest, and as
Ramirez screamed out, George sank back into a sitting position, using Ramirez
as a shield.

Avery drew her weapon.

“
Don’t move!
” she called.

George held the blade to Ramirez’s temple.

“Who’s the loser now?” he said. “
Who!?
” he screamed.

“
Drop it!
”

Ramirez groaned from the wound between his ribs. The arm around
his neck clearly made it difficult for him to breathe. He reached for his gun
but the point of the blade pressed deeper into his temple. George hugged him
tight and whispered in his ear.