Cause to Kill (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 1) (13 page)

The guard opened the door.

Avery rushed out.

Avery sat hunched over the wheel of her car, still in the prison
parking lot, destroyed, a mess, a husk, tears streaming down her face. Horrible
sobs broke free from her throat. At one point, she jerked up and screamed and
slammed the wheel.

Words.

Every time she heard one of his words, she cried harder.

Molester. Alcoholic.
Murderer
.

“No, no, no.”

She banged her head to get the images out: her father in the
woods, gun in hand. The body behind him. Varicose veins. Gray hair. That green
dress.

“
Get out, get, out, get out,
” Avery begged.

She’d almost forgotten until then. So many years had been spent
trying to forget the past, to get out of Ohio and wipe away her terrible
history. In only a few words, Howard Randall had brought it all back.

You’re just like them, she cried in misery.

Murderer
.

Alcoholic
.

Just like them…just like them.

No! She mentally rallied. You’re nothing like them! You’re no
murderer or drug addict. You’re not sick in the head. You do your best every
day. Mistakes? Sure, but you try your hardest, all the time.

Get him out of my head.

Get him out of my head.

Fists rubbed away her tears.

Sobs were stifled.

Pull yourself together, she commanded.

Tears came again, only this time, they were softer, gentler—not
about her old, painful past, but her new life, her lonely, tormented existence.

She hit the wheel.

“
Pull it together!”

A detailed clarity came to her in that moment. Everything felt
sharp and focused: the border of the windshield, her arm, the cars parked
around her, the sky. Not exactly herself but fully in control, Avery picked up
her phone to call Finley.

“Yo, yo,” he answered.

“Finley,” she said, “where are you?”

“I’m in the office working my ass off. Where the hell are
you
?
I should get a raise for this, you know? Aren’t I supposed to get the day off
for finding a psycho? I just had one of the greatest chases of my life and now
I’m stuck in an office. I should be out there having a beer.”

His entire monologue had come out like a single word.

Avery rubbed her eyes.

“Finley,
slow down
. What have you found so far?”

“Why are people always telling me to slow down?” he complained as
if he were truly upset. “I talk just fine. Everyone in my crew understands me
perfectly. Maybe
other
people are the problem, ever think about that? My
mother used to say.”

“
Finley!
The update.”

“The body is with the coroner,” he said, calmer and slower. “Crime
scene wrapped up. They found some fibers but it looks like they’re the same
ones from Jenkins: cat hair, a few dabs of plant extract on her clothes. Last
few hours I’ve been looking for connections, like you asked. Different majors:
economics and accounting. One a junior, one a senior. Different sororities, no
family connections at all. Blah, blah, blah. Talked to Ramirez. He said Cindy’s
parents mentioned an art class she took in Cambridge last semester. Place
called Art for Life. Located on Cambridge Street and Seventh. Called Tabitha’s
friends for a connection. Waiting to hear back.”

Artist
, Avery thought. He said our killer is an artist.

“Who teaches there?” she asked. “Who owns the studio?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Do I have a thousand hands, now?” he
barked. “You gave me like, a hundred jobs. I have no idea who teaches that
fuckin’ class. I told you, I’m waiting to hear back.”

She closed her eyes.

“OK,” she said. “Thanks.”

“You coming back to help me out or what?” Finley complained.

“I need to tie up some loose ends,” she said. “You have Cindy’s
address? And Tabitha’s? I want to swing by their dorms and see what I can
find.”

“I was already at Tabitha’s dorm. Just some chick room. Fancy
clothing and stupid posters. Nothing there.”

“Let
me
be the judge of that.”

* * *

Cindy had lived in a house not far from the Kappa Kappa Gamma
suite, or from her boyfriend. The two-story white Tudor with blue trim housed
two people. Cindy rented out the first floor; the second floor was inhabited by
another Harvard senior.

Avery called ahead to ensure Harvard officials would let her
inside.

A spare set of keys was under a rock by the front porch.

Cindy’s apartment smelled like stale air. There were four main
rooms: living room, bedroom, a spare room she’d converted into an office, and
the kitchen. A few pieces of modern art adorned the walls.

The office was filled with a slew of library-issued texts, along
with a number of paperback romances. Papers were stacked on the desk.

Avery checked through the files. Medical bills, class folders, job
interview letters, resumes. Everything was neat and orderly. Avery took notes
on her phone: Cindy’s medical provider, every teacher she’d had, the places
she’d interviewed, and her current employer: Devante Accounting Firm. The
letter of her acceptance as a junior accountant in their firm was proudly
displayed on the desk.

No mention of the art class could be found, but there was a
framed, hand-painted picture on the wall that had Cindy’s signature at the
bottom. The image was a bowl of fruit. Avery turned the picture over. On the
back was a stamp: Art for Life, their address, and the logo of a hand depicted
as a paint palette. Avery put everything back the way she found it, headed
outside, and hopped in her car.

MIT was called ahead to ensure they would allow her into Tabitha’s
room. The dean’s assistant said he would take care of everything.

As soon as she hung up, Avery’s phone rang.

“It’s Jones,” came a Jamaican voice.

“Tell me something,” Avery said.

“Nothing out here, man. The cabin is empty.”

“What the hell have you been doing all day?”

“
Research
, man,” Jones complained, “investigating. Took a
while to get up here. Had to get the keys, right? Then Thompson wanted to drive
and he has absolutely
no
sense of direction. GPS got us all screwy.
But,” he admitted with another swig of his beer, “we got here and turned the
place over. Nothing. You sure the kid stayed here?”

“You wasted a whole day,” Avery said.

“You’re not
listening
, Black! We been working hard.”

“Two girls are dead,” Avery said. “Or maybe you forgot that? We’ve
got a serial killer on the loose and you’re jerking around in a lakeside cabin.
Get back on Cambridge surveillance. And
this
time,” she snapped, “I want
a detailed report on my desk by tomorrow afternoon. I want to know
exactly
how you spent every hour. You hear me?”

“
Aw, come on!
Black. I’m
begging
you,” Jones cried.
“That job is crazy. Ain’t no way to track a car for miles and miles like that.
It’s
impossible
. I need like, ten other people.”

“Take Thompson.”

“
Thompson
?” Jones laughed. “He’s worse than Finley.”

“Remember,” Avery emphasized. “A detailed report on my desk
tomorrow afternoon. Make sure Thompson understands. Screw this up and I call
Connelly.”

She hung up.

How am I supposed to do anything in Homicide if half my team won’t
even respect my authority? she fumed.

By the time she reached her next destination, the sky was dark.

Tabitha had lived in the heart of the MIT, just off Vassar Street.
Her roommate answered the door; she was a small, mousy girl with long black
hair, glasses, and a face covered in pimples. The room was large: a main living
area, open kitchen, and two bedrooms.

“Hi,” the girl said, “you must be Avery.”

“Yeah, thanks for letting me in.”

“That’s her room, there,” she pointed.

The girl appeared dour and miserable.

“Were you two friends?” Avery wondered.

“Not really,” she said and walked away. “Tabitha was popular.”

Tabitha’s room was extremely cluttered.

The filing cabinet was more of a place to cram loose papers. A
quick search uncovered everything from receipts to a resume and a smelly
sandwich wrapper. The most revealing item was the number of pictures that lined
the walls, all seemingly done by Tabitha herself: farm scenes, the MIT skyline,
a bowl of fruit.

Avery looked at the back of one of the framed paintings.

A stamp read: Art for Life.

Molly Green was having a rough night. She puffed a lock of blond
hair out of her face, wiped her brow, and pretended to roll up her sleeves.

“Luke and Gidget!” she cried. “I’ve had just about enough of
this!”

The house where she worked as a part-time nanny appeared large and
empty. She stood in the oversized living room on the first floor and searched
behind couches. Face against the sliding glass doors that led to the back
porch, she cupped her eyes from the interior light and thought: They
better
not be out there.

No one was in the kitchen, closets, or downstairs bathroom.

A small side guest room was equally vacant.

“I’m serious,” she called, “it’s
way
past your bedtime.”

She stomped up the stairs in high heels, a black leather skirt,
and the skimpy tank top she planned to wear to the party later that night.

“You better be in bed!”

Sure enough, both Luke and Gidget were hidden under the covers and
giggling like mad because they’d once again outsmarted her.

The kids shared the single room and each had their own bed. A
stark contrast could be seen between Gidget’s side of the room and Luke’s. Hers
had actually been painted pink; it was neat and orderly, with toys in their
proper place and clothes in their drawers. Luke’s side of the room was painted
dark blue. All of his toys were on the floor, clothing thrown everywhere, and
the walls were smudged with dirt and markers.

“Now I see how it is,” Molly said. “Make me run all over the house
and then pretend you were asleep all this time. Nice try.”

The covers were thrown off and both of them vied for her
attention.

“Read me a book, Molly.”

“Don’t turn off the hall light,” Luke said.

“Your parents will kill me if they find you up when they get back.
You
have
to go to bed. No more books. I’ll leave the hall light on. You
hear me? I find either of you roaming the halls again or trying to scare me
downstairs, I become a squealer. And you know what that means.”

“
No, no,
” Gidget cried.

“Don’t tell Dad,” Luke pleaded.

“All right then. Bedtime. Good night.”

Once again, she shut the door, leaving it open about a quarter of
an inch so they could see the hall light.

Back downstairs she thought:
Ugh…Kids.

A quick look in the living room mirror confirmed that she still
looked
amazing
—green eye shadow in place, lashes long, lipstick perfect,
blue eyes sparkling.

You look
hot
, she thought with a squeal.

About twenty minutes later, as Molly was watching a taped edition
of
The John Oliver Show
, Mr. and Ms. Hachette silently opened the front
door.

Pleasantries were given all around.

Molly updated them on her night. “Dinner was great. Books were
read. I gave them both baths. We ran around for a while and they went to bed.
Nothing special.”

As always, the Hachettes asked if she wanted to say any longer,
eat something, or just crash in the guest room. Molly declined.

All she could think about was the party, a huge Brandeis bash
given by one of the biggest fraternities on campus. Three boys that she’d been
seeing would all be there, but none of them were actually considered boyfriend
material. Tonight, she was hoping to find someone new.

She grabbed her bag and skipped out the door.

Let the games begin, she thought, smiling.

* * *

He had been waiting outside for a while, hidden in the shadows of
his minivan interior. For the last hour, he’d been there, watching and
preparing for the right moment. He’d silently watched as Molly had searched the
house for the kids and found them in bed. He’d seen the Hachettes enter the
house.

He was parked on a very quiet street in a tree-lined neighborhood
just northeast of Brandeis University, only a few minutes’ drive to the college
and about a twenty-minute walk. Molly, he knew, would choose to walk. She would
hop down the stairs, make a left onto Cabot Street, and then a right onto
Andrea Road. After that, she usually altered her route based on where she
needed to be on campus.

As he suspected, Molly skipped down the house steps and turned
left.

He silently exited his minivan and moved to the back, where he
pretended to be unloading something from the trunk space. He loudly shut the
trunk, sighed, and stepped onto the street. Molly was headed directly toward
him. He took off his cap and looked up.

Immersed in her own thoughts, Molly nearly bumped right into him.
“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled.

“That’s fine,” he replied.

“Hey!” She suddenly brightened. “I
know
you. How are you?”

“I’m all right.” He smiled. “Having a bit of car trouble here.
Wait a minute.” He frowned and rubbed his chin. “I thought you lived somewhere
on the Brandeis campus?”

“Yeah, I do,” she acknowledged, “I just work here. See that
house,” and she turned to point it out, “I nanny for their kids during the
week. But don’t worry, I…”

The moment she swiveled, he quickly punctured her with his needle.

“
Hey
!
Ow! What the…”

Molly began to fall. He slid behind her to catch.

“Are you all right?” He pretended to panic. “Molly?” He tapped her
cheeks in mock concern. “Molly, are you OK?” He scanned the area.

The streets were dark and empty.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, “
I’ll
take care of you.”