Cause to Kill (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 1) (9 page)

He checked his watch. It was close to six o’clock.

The sun was still out and people were everywhere on the massive
lawn.

He sat against a tree along Killian Court on the MIT campus.
Easily seen among the shade of the high foliage, he wore a cap and glasses.

His destination had been reached only a few minutes before.
Problems at the office had facilitated a last-minute spreadsheet for his boss.
Often, he asked the All Spirit why his boss couldn’t be killed, as well as
anyone else he deemed a nuisance. Without a word—only through strange sounds
and disturbing images—the All Spirit had let him know that
his
thoughts
and feelings were meaningless: all that mattered were the girls.

Young. Vibrant. Full of life.

Girls that could release the All Spirit from his prison.

A temple of girls, college girls ready to take on the world, a
spring well of thriving, potential energy easily given over to the All Spirit,
enough power to break through his interdimensional realm and reach the Earth as
a physical presence. No more need for apostles and minions. Freedom. At last.
And all those who helped him? Those who were patient and strong, who had built
the temple of these young college morsels out of love and care? What about them?
Well, they would be assured a place in Heaven, of course, as gods in their own
right.

It was Tuesday, and on Tuesday night, Tabitha Mitchell always went
to the great dome library to study with friends after class.

At six fifteen, he spotted her. Tabitha was half Chinese and half
Caucasian. Pretty and popular, she was laughing with friends. She flipped her
dark hair and shook her head at something that was said. The group walked
across the lawn.

There was no need to follow. Her destination was already
known—back to the dorms to change, and then out to the Muddy Charles Pub for
the Tuesday Special: Ladies Night. All girls drink for free. Tuesday was her
favorite night to party.

He took a sip of a smoothie, closed his eyes, and mentally
prepared.

* * *

The build-up was his favorite part, the waiting, the yearning, and
the near explosion of his desire. Love was an emotion easy to feel with these
girls. Every one of them had vivacity of spirit and energy and an incredible
purpose they all shared, bigger than anything they could have ever achieved on
their own. They were princesses in his mind, queens, worthy of his adoration
and perpetual worship.

The rebirth was hard for him.

After they’d been changed, they were no longer his own. They had
moved on to become sacrifices for the All Spirit, building-blocks in the temple
of his eventual return, so all he had to remember them by were pictures, and
the memories he had of a budding love cut too short, as always cut too short.

He stood along the Charles River and stared out at the rolling
waves of water. Night had come and he was always the most introspective at
night, before the induction. Behind him, across Memorial Drive, Tabitha
Mitchell walked with her friends to the Muddy Charles Pub. They would stay there
for at least two hours, he knew, before they all split apart and Tabitha headed
back to her dorm, alone.

Stars were barely visible in the dark sky. He spotted one, then
two, and he wondered if the All Spirit lived in those stars, or if he was the
sky itself, the universe. As if in answer, he saw the image of the All Spirit:
a darker shadow among the sky that seemed to encompass the entire sky. There
was a patient, expectant look on the All Spirit’s face. No words were spoken.
All was understood in that moment.

At around nine, the killer headed back toward the pub and waited
on a narrow passage between the bar, which was in the large, white-columned
building of Morss Hall, and the Fairchild Building. The area wasn’t well lit. A
number of people ambled about.

At nine thirty-five, she appeared.

Tabitha said her good-byes in front of the hall. At the bottom of
the steps, they all went their separate ways. Her two friends turned toward
their apartment on Amherst Street, and she turned right. As was her habit, she
moved into the passway.

Regardless of the many people nearby and on the street, the spirit
of an actor embodied the killer. He took the persona of a drunkard and ambled
over to Tabitha. In the palm of his hand, attached to his fingers by silver rings,
he cupped a handmade plunger-needle.

Quickly passing behind her, he simultaneously stung the back of
her neck, gripped her neck so she wouldn’t move, and pulled her in close.

“Hey, Tabitha!” he said in a very familiar, loud, phony British
accent, and then, to lower her guard, he added, “Shelly and Bob told me you’d
be here. Let’s make up? OK? I don’t want to fight anymore. We belong together.
Let’s sit down and talk.”

Initially, Tabitha jerked and attempted to dislodge herself from
the assailant, but the quick-acting drugs made her throat numb. In the seconds
that followed, the names of her friends confused her. Combined with the
dwindling speed of her mind and body, she hopefully thought that her sorority
sisters were playing some kind of joke.

He was meticulous about how he held her. One hand wrapped around
her back to catch her from a fall. The other hand, which held the anesthetic,
placed the needle into his right cargo pants pocket, and then he cupped her
cheek. In this way he held her up with his strong arms and continued to talk as
if they were truly an arguing couple on the verge of a possible mend.

“Are you drunk again?” he declared. “Why are you always drinking
when I’m gone? Come here. Let’s sit down and talk.”

At first, many people on the street or walking through the grassy
breezeway—directly past the killer and Tabitha—believed something was obviously
wrong: her unnatural movements said as much. A few even stopped to watch, but
the killer was such an expert in his handling of Tabitha’s body that after the
initial injection and her brief struggle, Tabitha appeared like any other
intoxicated college student being helped by a best friend or lover. Her feet
tried to walk. Her arms grasped at him—not in an aggressive way but as if she
were in a dream and needed to shoo clouds.

Gently, lovingly, the killer led her over to a wall, sat down with
her, and stroked her hair. Even the most watchful and vigilant passersby soon
assumed everything was fine and continued on with their evening.

“We’ll be happy together,” the killer whispered.

He kissed her softly on the cheek. The excitement he felt was even
stronger than with Cindy. Strangely aroused, he peered up into the dark sky to
see the All Spirit, watching him with a grimaced look of disapproval.

“All
right
.” The killer blanched.

A deep hug brought Tabitha closer to his body. He smelled her
scent, squeezed her arms and legs. Slight moans came from her lips, but he knew
they would be fleeting; the drugs would erase her mind in just over twenty
minutes.

Two boys played Frisbee Golf right beside them. A group of rowdy
college freshmen sang songs. Cars raced by along the Charles River.

Amid the populated area, the killer picked Tabitha up and slung
her over his shoulders for a piggy-back ride. Although her feet dangled, he
held her hands on his chest and jogged to his car, which was parked on Memorial
Drive.

“Come on!” he cried in his accent. “Put your legs around me!
You’re making me do all the work. At least help me out a little bit?
Please
?
”

He continued the dialogue by the blue minivan, where he rested her
on the car, opened the passenger door, and gently placed her inside.

For a few seconds, he remained squatted by the door, not only to
keep up the concerned-boyfriend charade, but to observe her features, to watch
her chest rise and fall, and to wonder—as he had so often—what it would be like
to kiss her, for real, and to make love. The All Spirit grumbled from his
heavenly position, and the killer, with a sigh, closed the passenger side door,
took his place by the steering wheel, and drove away.

On Wednesday morning, bright and early, Avery entered the office
to check her messages and see if any new leads had come in. The disturbing
interview with George had only confirmed one thing: he was crazy. Could he be
the killer? Sure, Avery had begun to suspect, but there were still other
avenues she needed to pursue.

One last suspect remained: Cindy Jenkins’ boyfriend, Winston
Graves. Graves was a Harvard fencing champion from an elite family. His father
owned a number of supermarket chains and his mother was a regular on QVC. By
all accounts, he was a dedicated student and athlete who would never have to
work a day in his life, but he still received top grades and had aspirations of
representing his country in the Olympics.

Slim, she thought, but worth checking out.

“Hey, Black,” the captain called, “come on in here.”

Finley Stalls sat before the captain’s desk, like a thief about to
be caught red-handed. Despite their brief moment of camaraderie the day before,
Avery wanted nothing to do with him. A beat cop usually assigned to whatever
homicide squad division was in need, he was, she believed, lazy, mean,
untrustworthy, and he had an accent so thick and fast it was nearly impossible
to understand what he was saying half the time.

“What’s up, Cap?”

O’Malley wore a navy blue long sleeve shirt and tan slacks.
Stubble lined his face and he appeared to have gotten little sleep.

“Looks like Thompson kicked down the right doors,” he said. “We
received a call this morning from Shelly Fine, mother of our assumed perp.
Looks like she lent him some money to rent out a cabin on Quincy Bay for the
entire month. Here’s the address,” he said and handed her a slip of paper.
“That might be our spot. Get down there now. If this is it, I’ll meet with the
chief this afternoon to schedule the news conference.”

Avery checked the address.

Southwest, she thought, on the water. Far from the abduction site
or car routes. Intel from Jones had the killer driving in the opposite
direction after the alleyway in Cambridge. And Thompson had the car going
north.

“Sure,” she said, “I’ll head there this afternoon.”

“What are you? Drunk?” he snapped back. “I just handed you the
potential address of our killer, and you tell me you’ll wait until this
afternoon?”

“Thompson and Jones spent most of the day yesterday going over car
routes. They had the minivan heading north from the park and west from the
alley. Not once did it veer south. I’m not saying Fine isn’t our killer. I just
think.”

“Listen, Black. You can
think
all you want. You want to
follow-up on other leads? You go right ahead.
After
you search this
cabin. You hear me? As far as I’m concerned, this case is over. I want it tied
up with a pretty ribbon on top. You better make me look good for the chief.”

“Sure,” she said, “no problem.”

“That ‘sure’ sounds a lot like ‘I’ll do what I want,’” O’Malley
said.
“Look,
Avery
,” he said and settled down, “I know
you’re smart. That’s why you were promoted, yeah? And I know you’ve got great
instincts. But what I need now is closure. If I’m wrong? Great. Rub it in my
face all you want. But for now? We’ve got the best lead so far and I expect you
to follow it.”

“Understood,” she said.

“Good,” he replied, “now take your new partner and get out of
here.”

“Finley?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You got a problem with that?”

“Seriously?”

“What?” the captain challenged. “You think I’m giving you a
good
cop? Your first partner was killed. Your second one is in the hospital. Finley
is perfect. Solves all my problems. If he does good? Great. If he gets killed?
Not a problem. I can at least tell the chief I finally got rid of some dead
weight around here.”

“I’m right here!” Finley yelled.

O’Malley pointed at him.

“Don’t you disappoint me,” he snapped. “I’m tired of it, you hear
me, Fin? You prove yourself on this case and maybe I’ll rethink my opinion
about your dedication as an officer. For now, you’re just a racist cop that
gets moved around from department to department because no one wants to fire
you. Is that what you want? You like that title?
Good
. No more jerking
around. You do what she says and clean up your act. Understand?”

* * *

“What crawled up his ass?” Finley snapped when they’d left. The
words were spoken extremely fast, and with such a heavy accent that Avery
thought it sounded like “Whacawlup-is-ass” and she had to take a minute to
figure it out.

She was at least a head taller than Finley and seemed like a
supermodel compared to him with his frog-like lips, chubby cheeks, large eyes,
and short, stout frame.

Barely a word was spoken until the reached the car.

The white BMW seemed to offend Finley.

“Whoa!” he shouted. “I’m not getting in that thing.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a girly car.”

Avery hopped inside.

“Suit yourself.”

Finley—completely out of his element in his blue patrol uniform
standing next to a white convertible BMW—appeared as dejected as a kitten in a
rainstorm.

“Hey, Fin,” a distant cop shouted. “Nice ride.”

“Ah, man,” Finley moaned.

“It’s called karma,” Avery said when Finley begrudgingly hopped in
and closed the door. “What comes around goes around.”

She headed out of the lot and turned west.

“Hey,” he said, “where you going? Quincy Bay is in the other
direction.”

“We’ll get there,” she said.

“Now wait a minute,” Finley complained. “I was in that office too.
Cap said we go to Quincy Bay. No exceptions.”

“He also said you need to listen to me.”

“No way. No way,” Finley shouted. “You can’t screw this up for me,
Black. Turn the car around. This is my last shot. Captain hates me. We gotta do
what he says.”

His dropped consonants and verbal speed made Avery shake.

“Do you ever listen to yourself?” she asked. “I mean, do you ever
record yourself and then go back and try to understand what you said?”

Finley looked lost.

“Forget it,” she motioned.

“Black, I’m serious,” he pushed.

“Have you ever encountered a serial killer?” she asked.

“No. Yes. Well, maybe.” Finley thought.

“There’s something about them,” Avery said, “something different
from other people. I didn’t know that until I represented one as a lawyer and
thought he was innocent. After it turned out that I was wrong, I started to see
things differently. His house, what he collected. On the outside, they looked
like normal things, but in hindsight, they were clues. A shadow veiled
everything,” she remembered, “a shadow that longed to be lifted.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Finley whined.

Avery breathed out a heavy sigh.

“George Fine might be our killer,” she said. “He stalked girls and
he attacked a cop. But what I saw around him, it doesn’t add up. Points to
something different, like a crazy kid who’s stuck in his own head. There’s no
solid proof of anything else, which makes me think the house is a getaway, some
place he goes to try and get out of his own head. I don’t know, maybe I’m
wrong. We’ll get to the house. I promise. Just give me an hour.”

Finley shook his head.

“Shit, man, I’m fucked.”

“Not yet,” she said. “Just a brief detour to Harvard to interview
one final suspect and then it’s on to Quincy Bay.”

Dead silence lasted the rest of the way into Cambridge. At one
point, slightly curious about Finley and their difficult past together, Avery
cocked a brow and asked a question.

“Why are you always such an asshole?”

“To you?”

“Yeah, to me.”

Finley shrugged as if the answer was obvious.

“You’re a chick,” he said. “Everyone knows chicks don’t make good
cops. Heard you were a lesbian too. You like to bang serial killers, right?
Crazy shit. You’re a crazy chick, Black. Besides, you always look like you
belong somewhere else. So I say to myself: why doesn’t she go work somewhere
else if she don’t like it here? That’s all. Busting your balls. Gotta fight
back if you want respect,” he said and punched the air. “Pop, pop, pop.”

Avery began to wonder if he was slightly special.

* * *

“Can I help you with something?”

Winston Graves looked just like he’d been portrayed by the
sorority girls: cocky, aloof, tall, dark, and athletic. He had dreamy green
eyes and a toned, tan body. Although not a perfect match to the man Avery had
seen in the surveillance videos, she tried to imagine him in disguise and
slumped over to make him seem shorter.

On the porch of his first-floor apartment house, he wore white and
red basketball shorts, flip-flops, and a tank-top. Books were in his hand. He
glanced over at Finley, who stood further away on the sidewalk and glared at
Winston like a pit bull ready to strike.

‘My name is Avery Black,” she said and flashed her badge. “I’m
with Homicide. I’d just like to ask you a few questions about Cindy Jenkins.”

“It’s about time,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I called the cops on Sunday. This is the first time anyone
thought it might be important enough to talk to me?
Huh
,” he fake
laughed, “I’m touched.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Avery said. “Did you have anything to
add to the case? Is that why you wanted the police to call you back?”

“No,” he said, “I’m just forever amazed at the stupidity of our
public servants.”

Avery winced.

“Ouch,” Finley said. “You better mind your smart-ass tongue,
Harvard boy, or I’ll bring in your clean ass for Obstruction.”

Winston looked over at Finley, haughty at first; but then when he
caught a good look at his raging eyes, he seemed to show the slightest bit of
self-doubt and humility.

“What do you want?” Winston demanded.

“You can start by telling me where you were Saturday night,” Avery
said.

Winston laughed.

“Are you serious?” he said. “I’m a suspect now? This just gets
better and better.”

A powerful, protected air surrounded Winston, like he was untouchable,
above them all, and blessed by money and birthright. He reminded Avery of all
the multimillionaires she’d worked with as an attorney. During that time in her
life, she probably acted just like him.

 “Just going through the motions,” she said.

“I was playing poker with my friends. Everyone was at my house
until about midnight. You want to check? Go right ahead. Here are some names,”
and rattled off a few of his Harvard classmates.

Avery took notes.

“Thanks for that,” she said. “And, how are
you
?”

He frowned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, just trying to be empathetic. How are you feeling?
I assume this must have been very difficult for you. The way I understand it,
you and Cindy were in a long-term relationship. Two years, isn’t that right?”

“Great detective work,” he said sarcastically. “Cindy and I were
over. Not officially, but in the past few months, it became painfully obvious
that we were not meant to be together. We were moving in different directions.
I was going to break up with her. So no, I wasn’t that broken up. It’s a
terrible tragedy. I was upset when I heard what happened, but if you’re looking
for tears, you came to the wrong place.”  

“Wow,” Avery said. “It’s only been three days.”

“I’m sorry,” Winston snapped, “is there something I’m missing
here? You come to
my
house, make me feel like I’m a suspect, question my
relationship, and then try to make me feel guilty about my emotions? You might
want to be careful with your words, Detective, or I’ll call my lawyer and make
sure you’re put on a tighter leash.”

“
Shut your fuckin’ mouth!
” Finley yelled with a pointed
finger.

Avery flashed him a look that said “you are
not
helping.”

Her phone rang.

“Black,” she said.

O’Malley was on the line.

“Stop whatever you’re doing,” he said in an urgent, soft-spoken
tone. “Turn the car around and head over to Violet Path in the Mount Auburn
Cemetery over in Watertown. Plug it into your phone and get there now. Ask for
a detective named Ray Henley. He’s in charge. The cabin can wait.”

“What is it?” she asked.

There came a three-second pause.

“They just found another body.”