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

by Blake Pierce

Reluctantly, Avery pulled the seat away from the table and sat down.

  “That’s better now, isn’t it?” he cooed.

  “The guard said you were expecting me.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “How did you know I would come?”

  “I didn’t know, Avery. I’m not a mind-reader. But I do know things,” he whispered and leaned forward. “I know you’ve recently been promoted to detective, homicide division, and that you’re in charge of this case, yes? The papers say as much. And I know you have one great skill, Avery, and that is your tenacity of will. You’ll stop at nothing to win. But you’re a little out of your league on this one, aren’t you? Defending the common man is one thing. Hunting down gang members is another; those people have basic needs and desires, and easy motives to understand. But people like me?” He let the words hang in the air. “We’re a very different breed. Our motives, our purpose is often harder to perceive by…lesser mortals.”

  “Are you calling me a lesser mortal?”

  He tipped his head as if to say “yes” without acknowledging the fact.

  “I know you’re here,” he said, “which means you must need something. I’m guessing you want me to help you solve this case. A bold move, Ms. Black. I thought you despised me, and yet here you are, coming to me for aid. We’re partners, again.”

  “We were never been partners.”

  “We’ve always been partners,” he instantly corrected. “I came to this place for you, Avery, to show you the light, to change you—not your clothes but who you are on the inside. One person, one life, can change the world, and you are proof—my greatest gift to humanity. You’re different now. I can see it. The cocky swagger is gone. The pretentious air has been vanquished. You sit before me a humble servant of justice, not wealth or power or greed. I like this new you, Avery. I wholeheartedly approve.”

  The person he was talking about, the person he seemingly loved, was a shell of the woman Avery felt she’d been, a damaged, struggling shell that had fallen so far she almost never combed her hair or thought about what she might wear from day to day. She was a ghost, a ghost that drove around in her old car and dressed in clothes from her old life but was completely dead except for her strength of will, a will that forced her to seek out justice wherever she could so that one day, she might right the wrongs of her past and be set free.

  “I hate who I’ve become,” she said.

  “And if you could go back,” he wondered, “would you?”

  No, Avery thought. She would never go back. That life was over. But this new life…it wasn’t yet complete. She was still disgraced, still fighting from the shadows. Memories of her dark, empty apartment returned, of her life without friends or family—a daughter that wanted nothing to do with her. Suddenly, Avery felt herself slipping off a mental ledge, to a place she’d been only once before, a dark place.

  “I can never go back,” she said.

  “So,” Howard realized, “the past is gone, but the future is not yet bright. I can help you Avery. I want to help you.”

  Avery looked up, back in the room again, sitting before Howard Randall and immersed in a case that already seemed cold.

  “I need your help,” she admitted.

  “And I need something from you, Avery.”

  His small brown eyes opened wide with passionate intensity, and he leaned forward as far as he could go and repeated: “I need something from you.”

  “What do you need?” she asked.

  Randall’s entire persona changed. Hands slapped on the table and he leaned forward and practically yelled in her face with intense, rapid-fire words.

  “Father,” he said, “Grover Black. Alcoholic. Rapist. Beater. Molester. Murderer.”

  The words, like shots to her heart, launched Avery back to the past and she was there again, with her father and mother in that house in Ohio.

  “No,” she declared.

  “Mother. Layla Black. Alcoholic. Drug addict. Insane!”

  Avery had been to therapists, lots of therapists, after the incident with Randall, but it was nothing like this. She’d been guarded then, in control the whole time. Now, Randall had reduced her to a six-year-old child with only a few words and incredible passion.

  Tears came, the instinctual tears of a young girl that wanted to save her mother from a gun-toting father that knew no bounds.

  “Father! Alcoholic. Shamer. Murderer!”

  Desperate, out of her head, Avery stood up and banged on the door.

  “Let me out,” she called.

  Randall closed his mouth. He leaned back and raised a brow.

  “Your killer is an artist, yes?” he said. “The bodies are positioned like lovers? He’s an introvert, a dreamer. Not someone that would pick girls randomly off the street. He has to find them, watch them, know them from somewhere. Think, Avery. Think…”

  The guard opened the door.

  Avery rushed out.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  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, b
lah, 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.

  CHAPTER TENTY

  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.

&nb
sp; 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?”