Cause to Kill (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 1) (20 page)

“
No
!
”

The shot echoed through the room. His head jerked from the blast
and blood shot out from the back and sprayed the wall behind him.

“Shit,” Avery whispered.

Thompson ran in with his gun aimed at everything.

“
What the fuck?!
”
he cried. “Oh shit.”

Avery turned to him.

“Did you call it in?”

“Everyone’s on the way.”

Avery stood there staring at the dead man, just a few feet before
her, who had been alive but moments before, and her heart broke in a million
pieces.

* * *

Gloves and bags were retrieved from her car. Thompson was given a
set and told to check the perimeter. Avery took the first floor.

In the living room, carpets were gray and walls were painted a
muddy white. Apart from the living room and Villasco’s office, there was a
kitchen on the opposite side of the stairs. Kitchen cabinets were dark wood.
The counters were dark blue and the floors white tile.

A small door led to a grassy backyard enclosed by a wooden fence.
All different kinds of flowers were in bloom along the fence, and there as a
dark gray patio setting for guests.

Back in the house, Avery found a door to the basement behind the
steps. Creaky wooden stairs led to a wholly ordinary space: cement floor, nice
wooden shelving along the walls, and other storage areas. She opened a plastic
container and found clothing for the winter.

On the first level, she bumped into Thompson.

“Nothing outside,” he said. “Garage is filled with cans and
gardening tools.”

Together, they headed to the second floor.

Avery took the lead, gun held low. The cat she’d seen earlier
scurried across the top steps and disappeared. She put two fingers to her eyes
and pointed them left. Thompson nodded, turned left at the stairs, and moved
down the hallway. Avery went into the cat room. The small guest bedroom was
painted a grayish green. Three cat litter boxes rested on wooden floors. Two
cats were on the bed, the fat, gray one she’d seen before, and a white kitten.
The only closet held moth-ridden, female clothing.

She moved around the banister in the direction where Thompson had
headed. The master bedroom to her right held a large bed. Multiple mirrors
lined the walls. The carpet was white. She opened a few of the mirrored doors
to find clothing and shoes.

“Hey, Black,” she heard, “up here.”

The last room was more like a closet with a short staircase up to
an attic. The space was too small for Thompson to fit inside. Instead, he sat
on the steps and pulled down an item from above for Avery to investigate.

“Two others up here as well,” he said.

Avery grabbed a furry statue.

It was a cat, a black cat that had been stuffed and mounted on a
wooden base. No inscription lined the wood.

“Is there a tabby up there, too?” she asked.

“How did you know?”

Thompson handed down another taxidermy statue. It was a smaller,
orange-colored cat with black lines and dark eyes. She handed it back.

“Bag some of those hairs,” she said.

“Just this one?”

“Yeah. Forensics found tabby hairs on the first two bodies.”

Police sirens could be heard in the distance. As they moved
closer, Avery headed downstairs and walked out the front door.

She should have been ecstatic, or relieved.

Instead, Avery felt empty, unsettled. Puzzle pieces swirled in her
mind, unconnected: the killer’s car routes had all headed north and west
outside of Boston.
He
lives northwest of Boston, she thought. It’s a
match. That didn’t explain the blue minivan heading even further west outside
of Cambridge. A second house, she thought. He must have a second house. That’s
where he keeps the minivan. Everything else fit. He grew flowers. Cats lived in
the house.

If the tabby cat hairs matched what Randy had found on the bodies,
and if some of those plants were psychedelic, Avery knew the case would be
closed.

Thompson appeared behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder.

“See what you can find in the office,” she said. “Try not to
disturb the body. We need a second house. And we need to find that dark blue
minivan. You’re looking for rent bills, a mortgage address, auto insurance
forms, anything like that.”

“On it.”

The last words of Villasco were seared into her mind
.

I did it for family.

Who are we to judge?

Everyone deserves to exist.

* * *

Avery watched as Somerville and Boston PD cruisers raced down the
street with sirens blaring, parked wherever they wanted, and exited their
vehicles with guns drawn.

Connelly was among them.

None of the anger he routinely harbored against Avery was visible
in his gaze, none of the uncertainty or distrust. Wonder appeared on his face,
a sense of disbelief that what he witnessed could possibly be true: that a
woman—a disgraced public figure turned cop—had done it again, solved another
case and made the rest of the force look like slugs.

“What have we got?” he said.

Somerville police began to surround the house and enter.

The entire scene unfolded like a dream. Avery could barely see
Connelly or the others. She was miles away in her own mind. The puzzle wasn’t
complete, and yet she had no real facts to base it on except for instinct and
Gentry Villasco’s last words.
I did it for family. Who are we to judge?
Everyone deserves to exist.

Could Gentry have abducted all those women? Avery wondered. He
seemed sweet, almost hapless, like he was roped into something he couldn’t
control.

“Avery. Are you all right? Talk to me,” Connelly insisted.

“He’s inside,” she said, “Gentry Villasco. Dead. Shot himself.
Said something about doing it for family. Thompson is looking for a paper trail
that might lead to the minivan or another home.”

“Is this our guy? Avery?”

Everyone deserves to exist.

“I have to make a call,” she said.

Avery walked out into the street and dialed Tim McGonagle. His
phone went directly to voicemail. She left a message.

“Mr. McGonagle,” she said, “this is Avery Black. I need to know if
Gentry Villasco has any family that might work with you in the office, a cousin
or nephew—anyone. This is extremely important. Please call me back as soon as
you can.”

The list she’d taken earlier, of all the people that worked under
Villasco, was unfolded and scanned. A circle surrounded the name Edwin Pesh.

You can’t just leave a crime scene, she told herself. This is
your
crime scene. Connelly would never forgive you.
O’Malley
would never
forgive you. You have to follow through. Take statements, complete a more
thorough search of the house.

Patience had never been one of Avery’s strong suits. Although her
outwardly calm and sarcastic demeanor had—over the years—lulled a lot of people
into a false sense of security, inside she was really a machine that refused to
stop.

If Villasco is your killer, he’s dead now, she reasoned. There’s
nothing more you can do. The house is being watched and searched.

You can’t leave
, she mentally cried.

Avery turned back to the house. There was no sign of Thompson or
Connelly. A few of the Somerville police talked amongst themselves. Children
had begun to creep up to the scene from further down the street, as well as
parents in nearby homes.

Go
, she thought and made a beeline to her car.

No one stopped her.

The Watertown address of Edwin Pesh was thirty minutes away from
the Somerville house of Villasco. Just a short trip, she told herself. If you
don’t see anything unusual, you turn around and come back. Say you went for a
coffee run, or you were sick.

Avery took her time. She slowed down at stop signs and kept her
speed under the limit. There’s no need to rush, she thought.

About halfway into her ride, she imagined Rose, distressed from
their lunch and in a miserable mood all weekend long.

You have to make things right with her, she mulled. No matter what
happens here she’s your daughter, and not that crying, pooping, and peeing lump
anymore. She’s a woman now, a real person, and she needs a mother.

She dialed her number.

Voicemail picked up.

“OK, I’m an idiot,” Avery said. “Rose, this is your mom. God, I
don’t even deserve to call myself that, do I? I know I haven’t been there for
you. I’ve probably never been there for you the way you needed. I was a
terrible mother. That’s true, I know it. But I was young, and stupid, and
having a child is
hard
. That’s not an excuse,” she immediately
corrected. “This is all on me. Jack was great, he really was great, especially
with you. Give me another chance, Rose. I hate what’s happened to us. Please.
One more chance. I promise to make amends for the past. You might not accept me
as a mother anymore, but I’d like to at least try to be.”

Voicemail cut her off.

“Shit,” Avery whispered.

She was about to call back when she entered Watertown. The area
wasn’t as familiar to her as Cambridge or Boston. At a stoplight, she plugged
in the address for Edwin Pesh and watched the red dot blip on her screen.

Five minutes away.

Two.

The house of Edwin Pesh was in a dismal state. Grey paint was
chipped off the wood-panel exterior. A blue shutter hung from a single latch,
and the roof was piled with leaves and branches. Unlike any other house on the
block, trees enveloped the entire property in a gloomy shade. The lawn hadn’t
been cut in months, and any flowers were limp or dead.

A dark blue minivan sat in the driveway.

This is it, she thought. This is his house.

Everything came back to her: her conversations with Randall, the
car routes from Lederman Park and Cambridge, the abduction of Cindy Jenkins,
and the killer, as he bowed and twirled and entered his vehicle to drive away.

She kept the car at a slow roll and moved right up the street. At
the intersection, she turned and parked. An extra clip was shoved in her back
pocket. A powerful, portable flashlight was attached to her belt. The walkie-talkie
was left in the car seat.

Don’t go in there alone, she thought. Call for backup.

What if he has another victim? she wondered. Right now, you have
the element of surprise. Don’t make a scene. Go in alone. Silent. Quick.

You need help!
she fought.

For a second, she thought about calling Connelly or Thompson, or
even Finley. No, she argued, not them.
Why
? she demanded. You don’t
trust Connelly or Thompson, and Finley is a loose cannon.

A voice came into her head, one of the speakers at her police academy
graduation, a woman who had said, “Everyone needs help. You’re not alone as a
police officer. You’re part of a team. Rely on them.”

For years, she’d been on her own. No one had been her friend after
her world had collapsed. During her early years on the force, nearly everyone
had been an enemy. Strangely, one person stood out in recent memory: Ramirez.
From the start, he’d been honest with her, and appreciative, and a true partner
in every sense of the word. He’s hurt, she thought. Out of commission. Still.

She dialed his number.

Ramirez picked up on the first ring.

“Where you been, Black?” he said. “Heard O’Malley took you off the
case. What the hell happened?”

“Where are you?” she said.

“I’m at home. Hospital let me go. I’m not supposed to do any
strenuous lifting for a while but I’m bored
out of my mind
. Please tell
me you’re in my hood.”

“I found the killer,” she said. “His name is Edwin Pesh. He lives
in Watertown. I’m right outside his house.”

“Whoa.”

“How soon can you get here?”

“Did you call it in?”

“I called
you
,” she said.

“All right,” he muttered and thought it through. “All right.”

“Take down this address,” she said and gave him the details.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he replied, “maybe sooner if I
blow all the lights. Don’t go in there without me, understand?”

She hung up.

As if she were just another stroller on a balmy Sunday afternoon,
Avery shut her car door and headed down the street.

Her heart was beating fast.

At the house, she crouched low and ran up the drive.