Cause to Kill (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 1) Page 2

  Avery’s heart beat faster.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  “Are you?” he asked. “You’re good, but if this turns out to be something big, I want to make sure you won’t crack.”

  “I don’t crack,” she said.

  “That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said and pushed some papers on his desk. “Dylan Connelly supervises Homicide. He’s over there now working with forensics. You’ve got a new partner, too. Try not to get him killed.”

  “That wasn’t my fault,” Avery complained, and she inwardly bristled at the recent Internal Affairs investigation, all because her former partner—a prejudiced hothead—had jumped the gun and tried to infiltrate a gang all by himself and take credit for her work.

  The chief pointed outside.

  “Your partner’s waiting. I’ve made you lead detective. Don’t let me down.”

  She turned to see Ramirez waiting. She groaned.

  “Ramirez? Why him?”

  “Honestly?” The captain shrugged. “He’s the only one that wanted to work with you. Everyone else here seems to hate you.”

  She felt that knot in her stomach tightening.

  “Tread softly, young detective,” he added, as he stood, signaling their meeting was over. “You need all the friends you can get.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “How did it go?” Ramirez asked, as Avery exited the office.

  She lowered her head and kept on walking. Avery hated small talk, and she didn’t trust any of her fellow cops to talk to her without trading barbs.

  “Where are we headed?” she replied.

  “All business.” Ramirez smiled. “Good to know. All right, Black; we’ve got a dead girl placed on a bench in Lederman Park, by the river. It’s a high-traffic area. Not really a place you’d put a body.”

  Officers slapped palms with Ramirez.

  “Go get her, tiger!”

  “Break her in right, Ramirez.”

  Avery shook her head. “Nice,” she said.

  Ramirez raised his hands.

  “It’s not me.”

  “It’s all of you,” she sneered. “I never thought a police station would be worse than a law firm. Secret boys’ club, right? No girls allowed?”

  “Easy, Black.”

  She headed toward the elevators. A few officers cheered at getting under her skin. Usually, Avery was able to ignore it, but something about her new case had already shaken her tough exterior. The words the captain had used weren’t typical of a simple homicide: Don’t know what to make of it. Staged.

  And the cocky, aloof air of her new partner wasn’t exactly comforting: Seems cut and dry. Nothing was ever cut and dry.

  The elevator door was about to close when Ramirez put his hand through.

  “I’m sorry, all right?”

  He seemed sincere. Palms up, an apologetic look in his dark eyes. A button was pressed and they moved down.

  Avery glanced at him.

  “The captain said you were the only one that wanted to work with me. Why?”

  “You’re Avery Black,” he replied as if the answer were obvious. “How could I not be curious? Nobody really knows you, but everyone seems to have an opinion: idiot, genius, has-been, up-and-comer, murderer, savior. I wanted to sort out fact from fiction.”

  “Why do you care?”

  Ramirez flashed an enigmatic smile.

  But he said nothing.

  * * *

  Avery followed Ramirez as he walked easily through the parking garage. He wore no tie and his top two buttons were open.

  “I’m over there,” he pointed.

  They passed a few uniformed officers that seemed to know him; one waved and flashed a strange look that seemed to ask: What are you doing with her?

  He led her to a dusty, crimson Cadillac, old, with torn tan seats on the inside.

  “Solid ride,” Avery joked.

  “This baby has saved me many times,” he relayed with pride as he lovingly pat the hood. “All I have to do is dress like a pimp or a starving Spaniard and nobody pays me any mind.”

  They headed out of the lot.

  Lederman Park was only a few miles from the police station. They drove west on Cambridge Street and took a right on Blossom.

  “So,” Ramirez said, “I heard you were a lawyer once.”

  “Yeah?” Guarded blue eyes flashed him a sidelong glance. “What else did you hear?”

  “Criminal defense attorney,” he added, “best of the best. You worked at Goldfinch & Seymour. Not a shabby operation. What made you quit?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I know you defended a lot of scumbags. Perfect record, right? You even had a few dirty cops put behind bars. Must have been living the life. Huge salary, an endless stream of success. What kind of person leaves all that behind to join the force?”

  Avery remembered the house she’d grown up in, a small farm surrounded by flat land for miles. The solitude had never suited her. Neither had the animals or the smell of the place: feces and fur and feathers. From the beginning she’d wanted to get out. She had: Boston. First the university and then the law school and career.

  And now this.

  A sigh escaped her lips.

  “I guess, sometimes things don’t work out the way we plan.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  In her mind, she saw the smile again, that old, sinister smile from a wrinkled old man with thick glasses. He’d seemed so sincere at first, so humble and smart and honest. All of them had, she realized.

  Until their trials were over and they went back to their everyday lives and she was forced to accept that she was no savior of the helpless, no defender of the people, but a pawn, a simple pawn in a game too complex and rooted to change.

  “Life is hard,” she mused. “You think you know something one day and then the next day, the veil gets pulled down and everything changes.”

  He nodded.

  “Howard Randall,” he said, clearly realizing.

  The name made her more aware of everything—the cool air in the car, her position on the seat, their location in the city. Nobody had said his name aloud in a long time, especially to her. She felt exposed and vulnerable, and in response she tightened her body and sat taller.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  Only it wasn’t fine. Everything had ended after him. Her life. Her job. Her sanity. Being a defense attorney had been challenging, to say the least, but he was the one that was supposed to make it right again. A genius Harvard professor, respected by all, simple and kind, he’d been charged with murder. Avery’s salvation was supposed to come through his defense. For once, she was supposed to do what she had dreamed about since childhood: defend the innocent and ensure justice prevailed.

  But nothing like that happened.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The park had already been closed off to the public.

  Two plainclothes officers flagged down Ramirez’s car and quickly waved them away from the main parking lot and over to the left. Among the officers that were obviously from her department, Avery spotted a number of state police.

  “Why are the troopers here?” she asked.

  “Their home base is right up the street.”

  Ramirez pulled over and parked next to a line of police cruisers. Yellow tape had sectioned off a large area of the lot. News vans, reporters, cameras, and a bunch of other runners and park regulars stood by the tape to try to see what was happening.

  “Nobody beyond this point,” an officer said.

  Avery flashed a badge.

  “Homicide,” she said. It was the first time she’d actually acknowledged her new position, and it filled her with pride.

  “Where’s Connelly?” Ramirez asked.

  An officer pointed toward the trees.

  They made their way across the grass, a baseball diamond on their left. More yellow tape met them before a l
ine of trees. Under thick foliage was a walking path that wound its way along the Charles River. A single officer, along with a forensics specialist and a photographer, stood before a bench.

  Avery avoided initial contact with those already on the scene. Over the years, she’d come to find that social interactions strained her focus, and too many questions and formalities with others sullied her point of view. Sadly, it was yet another characteristic of hers that had incurred the scorn of her entire department.

  The victim was a young girl placed askew on the bench. She was obviously dead, but with the exception of her bluish skin tone, her position and facial expression might have made the average passerby think twice before they wondered if something was wrong.

  Like a lover waiting for her paramour, the girl’s hands were placed on the bench-back. Her chin rested on her hands. A mischievous smile curled on her lips. Her body was turned, as if she’d been in a sitting position and had moved to look for someone or breathe out a heavy sigh. She was clothed in a yellow summer dress and white flip-flops, lovely auburn hair flowing over her left shoulder. Her legs were crossed and her toes rested gently on the path.

  Only the victim’s eyes gave away her torment. They emanated the pain and disbelief.

  Avery heard a voice in her mind, the voice of the old man that haunted her nights and daydreams. In regards to his own victims, he had once asked her: What are they? Only vessels, nameless, faceless vessels—so few among billions—waiting to find their purpose.

  Anger rose up in her, anger born at being exposed and humiliated and most of all, from having her entire life shattered.

  She moved closer to the body.

  As an attorney, she’d been forced to examine endless forensics reports and coroner’s photos and anything else related to her case. Her education had vastly improved as a cop, when she routinely analyzed murder victims in person, and could make more honest assessments.

  The dress, she noticed, had been washed, and the victim’s hair cleaned. The nails and toenails were freshly polished, and when she took a deep whiff of skin, she smelled coconut and honey and only the faint hint of formaldehyde.

  “You gonna kiss it or what?” someone said.

  Avery was bent over the victim’s body, hands behind her back. On the bench was a yellow placard labeled “4.” Beside it, on the girl’s lower waist, was a stiff orange hair, barely perceptible among the yellow of her dress.

  Homicide Supervisor Dylan Connelly stood akimbo and waited for an answer. He was tough and rugged, with wavy blond hair and penetrating blue eyes. His chest and arms nearly tore out of his blue shirt. His pants were brown linen, and thick black boots adorned his feet. Avery had noticed him often in the office; he wasn’t exactly her type, but he had an animal ferocity about him that she admired.

  “This is a crime scene, Black. Next time, watch where you’re walking. You’re lucky we already dusted for prints and shoes.”

  She looked down, baffled; she had been careful where she had walked. She looked up at Connelly’s steely eyes and realized he was just looking for a reason to ride her.

  “I didn’t know it was a crime scene,” she said. “Thanks for filling me in.”

  Ramirez snickered.

  Connelly bit down and stepped forward.

  “You know why people can’t stand you, Black? It’s not just that you’re an outsider, it’s that when you were on the outside, you had no real respect for cops, and now that you’re on the inside, you have even less respect. Let me be perfectly clear: I don’t like you, I don’t trust you, and I sure as hell didn’t want you on my team.”

  He turned to Ramirez.

  “Fill her in on what we know. I’m going home to take a shower. I feel sick,” he said. Gloves were removed and thrown to the ground. To Avery, he added: “I expect a full report by the end of the day. Five o’clock sharp. Conference room. You hear me? Don’t be late. And make sure you clean this mess up, too, before you leave. State troopers were kind enough to step aside and let us work. You be kind enough and show them some courtesy.”

  Connelly walked away in a huff.

  “You have a real way with people,” Ramirez admired.

  Avery shrugged.

  The forensics specialist on the scene was a shapely young African American named Randy Johnson. She had large eyes and an easy way about herself. Short, dreadlocked hair was only partially hidden behind a white cap.

  Avery had worked with her before. They’d formed a fast bond during a domestic violence case. The last time they’d seen each other was over drinks.

  Excited to be on another case with Avery, Randy held out a hand, noticed her own glove, blushed, guffawed, and said, “Oops,” followed by a wacky, eek! expression and the proclamation: “I might be contaminated.”

  “Good to see you too, Randy.”

  “Congrats on Homicide.” Randy bowed. “Moving up in the world.”

  “One wacko at a time. What have we got?”

  “I’d say someone was in love,” Randy replied. “Cleaned her up pretty good. Opened her up from the back. Drained her body, filled her up so she wouldn’t rot, and stitched her up again. Fresh clothes. Manicure. Careful too. No prints yet. Not much to go on until I get to the lab. Only two wounds I can find. See the mouth? You can either pin this from the inside, or use gel to get a corpse to smile like that. From the puncture wound here,” she pointed at the corner of a lip, “I’d guess injection. There’s another one here,” she noted on the neck. “By the coloring, this came earlier, maybe at the time of abduction. Body has been dead for about forty-eight hours. Found a couple of interesting hairs.”

  “How long has she been here?”

  “Bikers found her at six,” Ramirez said. “The park is patrolled every night around midnight and three a.m. They didn’t see anything.”

  Avery couldn’t stop staring at the dead girl’s eyes. They seemed to be looking at something in the distance, yet close to the shoreline, on their side of the river. She carefully maneuvered to the back of the bench and tried to follow the line of sight. Downriver, there were a bunch of low brick buildings; one of them was short; a white dome rested on its on top.

  “What building is that?” she asked. “The large one with the dome?”

  Ramirez squinted.

  “Maybe the Omni Theatre?”

  “Can we find out what’s playing?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, just a hunch.”

  Avery stood up.

  “Do we know who she is?”

  “Yeah,” Ramirez replied and checked his notes. “We think her name is Cindy Jenkins. Harvard senior. Sorority sister. Kappa Kappa Gamma. Went missing two nights ago. Campus police and Cambridge cops put her picture up last night. Connelly had his people check through photos. Hers was a match. We still need confirmation. I’ll call the family.”

  “How are we on surveillance?”

  “Jones and Thompson are on that now. You know them, right? Great detectives. They’re assigned to us for the day. After that, we’re on our own unless we can prove we need the extra resources. No entrance cameras to the park, but there are some up the highway and across the street. We should know something this afternoon.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “None so far. The bikers are clean. I can troll around.”

  Avery surveyed the surrounding area. Yellow tape encompassed a large swath of the park. Nothing out of the ordinary could be found near the river or on the bike path or grass. She tried to form a mental picture of events. He would have driven in through the main road, parked his car close to the water for easy access to the bench. How did he get the body to the bench without causing suspicion?

  She wondered. People might have been watching. He had to prepare for that. Maybe he made it look like she was alive? Avery turned back to the body. It was a definite possibility. The girl was beautiful, even in death, ethereal almost. He had obviously spent a lot of time and planning to ensure she looked perfect. Not a gang kill,
she realized. Not a scorned lover. This was different. Avery had seen it before.

  Suddenly, she wondered if O’Malley was right. Maybe she wasn’t ready.

  “Can I borrow your car?” she asked.

  Ramirez cocked a brow.

  “What about the crime scene?”

  She offered a confident shrug.

  “You’re a big boy. Figure it out.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Harvard.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  He sat in an office cubicle—superior, victorious, more powerful than anyone on the planet. A computer screen was open before him. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, and remembered.

  He recalled the cavernous basement of his home, more like a garden nursery. Multiple varieties of poppy flowers lined the main room: red, yellow, and white. Many other psychedelic plants—each one accrued over countless years—had been placed in long troughs; some were alien-like weeds or intriguing flowers; many had a more common appearance that would have been overlooked in any wildlife setting, despite their potent abilities. A timed watering system, temperature gauge, and LED lights kept them thriving.

  A long hallway made of wooden beams led to other rooms. On the walls were pictures. Most of the pictures were of animals in various stages of death, and then “rebirth” as they were stuffed and positioned: a tabby cat on its hind legs playing with yarn; a white and black spotted dog, rolled over and waiting for a tummy rub.

  Doors came next. He imagined the door on the left opened. There, he saw her again, her naked body laid out on a silver table. Strong fluorescent lighting lit the space. In a glass case were many colorful liquids in clear jars.

  He’d felt her skin when he’d rubbed his fingers along the outside of her thigh. Mentally, he reenacted each delicate procedure: her body drained, preserved, cleaned, and stuffed. Throughout the rebirth, he took photos that would later cover more walls saved for his human trophies. Some of the photos had already been placed.

  Tremendous, surreal energy flowed through him.