Cause to Kill (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 1) (11 page)

The police department stood on their feet when Avery and Finley
appeared from the elevator banks. Finley basked in the attention. He bowed,
hooted at his friends, and repeatedly yelled: “I’m the man, right? You see how we
do it on the South Side?”

“Great job.” People clapped.

“You got him!”

In a dark place, Avery heard none of it. The office was a shell
with no one inside, the sounds: white noise. Images swirled in her mind: George
Fine, Winston Graves, and the old dead man in his sick, twisted basement of
horrors.

O’Malley came out of his office to personally shake Avery’s hand.

“Talk to me,” he said. “How did it go?”

“Guy’s name is Larry Kapalnapick. Works at Home Depot as a
loader,” Avery said. “From the looks of it, all the bodies in the basement were
already dead.”

“Fuckin’ grave digger!” Finley chimed in.

“He must have been doing it for years,” Avery said. “Watertown
police estimated there were body parts from at least twenty different people
down there. Best guess is, he digs up a body, plays around for a while, and
then cuts it up and stores it in the basement. Henley’s department is having
everything shipped to the lab just to make sure.”

“Son of a bitch,” O’Malley whispered.

Finley laughed.

“Motherfucker had Pine Scents hanging all over the basement
ceiling.”

“What about
our
victim?”

“We went back to the scene after the chase. Coroner was there and
forensics. Randy says it was the same perpetrator as Cindy Jenkins, same MO,
and from the smell of it, probably the same anesthetic. She’ll check into that
here.”

“So, Fine isn’t our guy.”

“Can’t be,” she said. “He was locked up tight the night before.
He’s guilty of something. But not this. As a precaution, I asked Thompson and
Jones to check out the cabin in Quincy Bay. Then Jones will continue street
surveillance for the minivan, and Thompson has been assigned to dig up
everything he can on Winston Graves.”

“Graves? Jenkins’ boyfriend.”

“It’s a long shot,” Avery admitted. “In the meantime, Finley takes
over on the Tabitha Mitchell case. He can start now with friends and family.”

“Finley?”

“He worked his ass off today.”

To Finley she added: “Remember to think
beyond
Tabitha
Mitchell. We need any connections between her and Cindy Jenkins. Childhood
history. College majors. Favorite foods. After-school activities. Friends and
family. Anything.”

With a fire in his eyes, Finley banged on his heart.

“I’m your pit bull,” he said.

The captain nodded at her.

“What are
you
going to do?”

Avery imagined the blue minivan heading west from Boston. She
believed the killer had to reside in one of the counties that followed:
Cambridge, Watertown, or Belmont. The combined populations of those counties
totaled almost two hundred thousand. An endless sea of faces.

“I need to think,” she said.

* * *

Avery sited her Glock 27 at a distant target. Orange goggles
covered her eyes. Plugs had been stuffed into her ears. She imagined the face
of Howard Randall as a placeholder for the new, faceless killer. She fired.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Three shots hit the target almost dead center.

Thinking had always been her strong suit: time away from a case
when she could decompress and process what she knew.

A blank wall greeted her this time.

No leads. No connections. Just a wall that kept her away from the
truth. Avery had never believed walls. Walls were for other people, other
attorneys, other cops that simply didn’t know how to break through those walls
and see what others couldn’t.

What am I missing?

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Her bullets faded to the right. At the start of her session, she’d
hit nothing but bull’s eyes. Now they were off. Just like you, she thought.
Off
.
Missing the target. Missing something.

No
, she mentally rallied.

Breathe in…breathe out…

Pop! Pop! Pop!

All bull’s eyes.

Howard Randall, she thought.

Suddenly, she realized: That’s it. A fresh perspective.

Stupid, she thought.
Crazy
. Connelly would go nuts. The
media would have a field day. Fuck the media. Would he even do it? Of course he
would; she knew for certain. He went to jail for you. He has this sick
fascination about you. He’s probably following the case already. No, she swore.
I won’t do it. I won’t go down that road again.

She put in a fresh clip in her gun.

She fired.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Every shot went wide.

* * *

In the darkness of the police station, well past midnight, Avery
sat hunched over her desk. Pictures lay spread out before her: Cindy Jenkins,
Tabitha Mitchell, Lederman Park, the cemetery, and the alleyway and screenshots
of the minivan and the killer.

What am I missing?

Photos were meticulously analyzed.

Finley had already taken a few sworn statements. From the early
looks of it, Tabitha had been abducted right out in the open, just like Cindy,
probably only steps away from the bar she visited every Tuesday night. Only,
there was no boyfriend or frequent stalker to question. According to those
interviewed, Tabitha had been single for a while. Tabitha was in a
sorority—Sigma Kappa—but the connections to Cindy Jenkins ended there. Tabitha
was a junior economics major. Cindy was a senior in accounting.

Sororities.

Is
that
the link?

She made a mental note to check nationwide sorority gatherings.

The movie playing at the Omni was about three women. The
gravestone pointed to three women. Does that mean he kills in threes? The movie
and the WWII tombstone girls were compared and contrasted for any leads.

She surveyed multiple car routes around Cambridge and Watertown
and imagined where the killer might live, and why he might have chosen those
routes. The list of dark blue Chryslers was now being supervised by Finley.
They already had two thousand listed with owners for cars made and sold in the
past five years. What if he bought it six years ago? she thought. Or seven?

Howard Randall continued to invade her thoughts. She even imagined
she heard his voice: “You can come to me, Avery. I won’t bite. Ask me your
questions. Let me help you. I’ve
always
wanted to help.”

She banged on her head.

“Go
away
!”

Still, the image came, and laughed.

At seven-thirty the next morning, Avery sat in her car a half
block down from the home of Constance and Donald Prince.

They lived in Somerville, just northeast of Cambridge, in a small
yellow house with white trim on a quiet suburban street. A white picket fence
surrounded the property. There were two porches: one on the first floor up, and
another on the second level, where chairs and a table had been set for sunlit
morning breakfasts.

The scene appeared to be the perfect setting: trees lined the
sidewalks, the sun was coming up, and birds chirped in the sky.

Screams were all Avery could remember, the endless screams from
the one and only time she had visited the Princes, and tears and plates being
thrown against the wall as both of them had desperately tried to drive her
away.

Constance and Donald Prince were the parents of Jenna Prince, the
last Harvard student killed by Professor Howard Randall, nearly four years ago.
The murder had come only weeks after superstar defense attorney Avery Black had
done the impossible and gotten Professor Randall off for the murder of two
other Harvard students, despite the overwhelming circumstantial evidence
stacked against him.

Those brief few days between Avery’s jury win and the killing of
Jenna Prince resounded in Avery’s mind. At the jury verdict, the celebration
had begun. Nights were spent downing expensive bottles of wine and sharing her
bed with numerous, nameless faces. One night in particular, she’d even called
her ex to ask if he wanted to get back together again. She never even waited
for a response. Avery had just laughed after her question and swore she’d never
be with a loser like him again. The shame she felt over that moment continued
to burn on her cheeks even now, years later.

Her victory had been short-lived.

She learned the truth from the papers a few days later: “Freed
Harvard Killer Strikes Again.” Like his previous victims, the many body parts
of Jenna Prince had been carefully reconfigured near Harvard landmarks. But
unlike the other murders, this time, Howard Randall had immediately stepped
forward. He appeared in Harvard Yard almost as soon as the body was discovered,
hands up in surrender and covered in blood. “This is for you, Avery Black,” he
had told reporters. “This is for your freedom.”

And her belief that she was a decent, honorable person? That she’d
finally done good and freed an innocent man?

Gone.

Everything she believed in was destroyed. Her husband had always
known the truth about her faulty overconfidence and ego, but her daughter? It
was a shocking revelation. “Was it all about the money?” Rose had wondered.
“You set a
serial killer
free. How many other murderers have you let off
so you could wear those shoes?”

Avery glanced at the tan interior of her BMW.

The leather was faded and old. The black dashboard had been
removed and updated with her transreceiver, police scanner, and a computer for
when she was on stakeouts. The car, bought at the height of her arrogance and
fame, now served as a memory of her indulgent past, and a testament to her future.

“You won’t die in vain,” she swore to the memory of Jenna Prince.
“I promise.”

The walk to the house felt like forever. The sound of her shoes on
the cement, birds, distant cars, and noises all made her more aware of herself,
and what she intended to do. “I hate you,” Constance had spit all those years
ago. “You’re the
devil
. You’re worse than the devil.” “Get out of our
house!” Donald had cried. “You already killed our daughter. What more do you
want?
Forgiveness
? Who can ever forgive someone as sick and depraved as
you?”

Avery walked up the steps.

A phone call would have been inappropriate, even more so than an
impromptu visit. They needed to see her face, her desperation. And she needed
them
.

She rang the doorbell.

A middle-aged female voice cried out: “Who is it?”

Footsteps moved closer.

The door opened.

Constance Prince was white, with an unnatural tan and cropped,
bleached-blond hair. Although she rarely left the house except for chores or
Mahjong with friends, she had on a mask of heavy make-up: blush, eyeliner, and
red lipstick. Wrinkles lined her mouth and eyes. She wore a light sweater and
red slacks. Golden bracelets clinked on her wrists. Jewels hung from golden
threads on both ears.

A few blinks and she seemed to focus in on Avery. The welcoming
air of her posture and appearance quickly faded. A breath was sucked in and she
stepped back as if in shock.

Another voice called out.

“Who is it, honey?”

Without a word, Constance tried to shut the door.

“Please,” Avery said. “I just need to ask a favor. I’ll be gone
before you know it.”

A sliver of Constance’s face could be seen between the door and
frame. Head low, she stood unmoving for a moment.

“Please,” Avery begged. “I need something, but I can’t do it
without your approval.”

“What do you want?” Constance whispered.

Avery searched the porch and street before she turned back to the
door.

“Have you read the papers?”

“Yes.”

“There’s another killer on the loose. He’s a lot like, the last
one,” Avery said without mentioning Howard Randall, “smart and hard to track.
Another body was found, today. That makes two so far, but he might work in
threes, which means another body isn’t far off. I’m a cop now,” she added.
“That life, who I was back then, that’s not who I am now. I’m trying to make
amends. I’m trying to be
different
.”

The door opened.

Donald Prince had replaced his wife. Older, extremely large and
out of shape, he had short gray hair, reddish skin, and a look that spoke to
his shock and fury. He wore a dirty T-shirt, shorts, and green clogs. A
dirt-covered glove was over one of his hands.

“What the hell do you want?” he said. “Why are you here?” He
looked down the street. “You’re not welcome in this house. Haven’t you done
enough to our family?”

“I came to get your permission,” she said.

“Permission?” he spit and almost laughed. “You don’t need our
permission for anything.
We want you out of our lives!
You killed our
daughter. Don’t you understand that?”

“I never killed your daughter.”

His eyes widened.

“You think that
excuses
what you did?”

“What I did was wrong,” she said, “and I have to live with
that—every day. I’m different now. I’m a cop. I try to
right
these
wrongs, not allow them to go free.”

“Well, good for you.” He aggressively nodded. “Too little, too
late for us, though. Isn’t it?”

He tried to close the door.

“
Wait
,” Avery said.

She held a palm on the painted wood.

“There’s a new killer. Just like Howard Randall. Right in our
backyard. He’ll kill again. I’m sure of it. And soon. My leads are cold. I need
a fresh perspective. I need to go visit Howard, see if he can help. I want your
permission.”

A laugh came from inside.

The door opened.

Donald leaned back, impervious.

“You want my permission?” he said. “To talk to the killer of my
daughter, so you can stop another killer?”

“That’s right.”

“Sure,” he said with a fake smile. “Good luck.”

Any familiarity left his face, and a dark, murderous glare
penetrated Avery.

“I don’t care
who
you are now. You hear me? You come to my
house again? You talk to my wife?” Violence burned in his eyes. His voice
turned into a whisper. “I’ll kill you,” he swore. “And
that
will be
justice.
True
justice.”