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

by Blake Pierce

  “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.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Large glass windows buttressed both sides of the glass door of Art for Life Studios. Avery could see a narrow, packed gallery space inside with all kinds of modern art: sculptures, paintings, drawings, and retro collages. Further back, the room opened up into a much larger area, with a circle of easels for what she assumed was the art class meeting area.

  Her phone rang.

  “Black,” she answered.

  “Who’s your boy?” Finley said. “I just got a call back from one of Tabitha’s friends. The victim definitely took an art class at that studio.”

  “I already figured it out. Didn’t you notice all the art when you were in her dorm?”

  “What art?”

  “In her room.”

  “That wasn’t art.” Finley blanched. “That was garbage. I thought she bought it at a yard sale. Look, Black, don’t bust my balls. I just got you a good lead.”

  “I’m here now,” she said. “The studio is closed.”

  “I’m at a bar,” he replied. “My shift ended two hours ago. I’d invite you down here, but I don’t think they let lesbians in this place.”

  “I’m not a lesbian,” she said.

  “Really? Could have fooled me.”

  “You’re a disgusting human being, you know that, Finley?”

  “Nah, nah,” he said, “I’m a good guy. Just my upbringing. It was all messed up. I’ll do better next time. I promise. You’re cool, even if you’re a lesbian. Seriously. I got your back. See you in the morning. I gotta go get fucked up.”

  Too hyped up on adrenaline to relax or sleep, Avery headed home to investigate Art for Life in the comfort of her living room. On the way, she ordered takeout Chinese.

  The apartment was kept dim. A single lamp was turned on by the couch. She sat at the table in the living room and chowed down on food while she worked.

  Art for Life had been in business for over five years. The owner was a man named Wilson Kyle, a former artist and businessman who also owned a restaurant near the studio and two buildings near the area. A quick search on her police database turned up nothing on Kyle.

  Two people were employed at his studio: a full-time salesman named John Lang and a part-time female employee who came in on the weekends. Kyle himself taught the art classes on Wednesday and Thursday nights, but Lang taught two classes on alternate Saturdays.

  Lang had a record.

  A registered sex offender, with two incidents filed from seven years ago. One was from a boy he apparently babysat, and the other was from a girl who had lived on his block. Both sets of parents said their children had been molested. Lang pleaded not guilty but then flipped his plea to avoid a trial and possible jail time. He was given five years probation, mandatory counseling for a year, and a stigma that would remain with him for life.

  According to the police files, his height and weight matched the estimates for the killer.

  Avery sat back.

  It was close to midnight. She was wide awake and ready to bang down the door of John Lang. This could be the guy, she thought.

  High from the possibility of catching the killer, Avery wanted to share the good news with someone. Strangely, Ray Henley came to mind, but the thought of an awkward, late-night call with someone she’d only recently met was too daunting to face. Finley was out of the question, and the captain had given specific orders about disturbing him at home.

  She thought about calling her daughter.

  The last time they’d spoken was months earlier, and it had not gone well.

  Avery sent her an email instead. “Hey,” she wrote, “been thinking about you a lot lately. Would love to talk in person. How about lunch this weekend. Maybe Saturday? Our usual place? Noon? Let me know. I love you. Mom.”

  Still eager to talk to someone, she dialed the hospital.

  The phone rang numerous times before a sleepy voice picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Ramirez,” she said, “how you doing?”

  “Damn, Black. What time is it?”

  “Almost one.”

  “This better be good,” he mumbled, “I was in the middle of a great dream. I was in a boat on a clear blue ocean, and this mermaid comes up to me and we start making out.”

  “Wow,” she said, but she wasn’t in the mood to listen to him describe his sex dreams.

  “I’ve got a good lead,” she went on, “Art for Life. Guy that works there is named John Lang. Has a sheet. Both girls took classes there. Could be our guy.”

  “I thought Finley had already solved your case,” Ramirez joked. “He said he took down a genuine serial killer yesterday.”

  “Finley wouldn’t know a serial killer from a box of cereal.”

  Ramirez laughed.

  “He’s crazy, right? Heard about the old man with the dead bodies in his basement. Wild shit. I guess some people. You just never know.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better, better. I really just want to get the hell out of here and back to work.”

  “I know, but you need to rest.”

  “Yeah, yeah, and it’s not that bad really,” he said. “I got a private room, nice bed, paid leave, decent food. You’re the one I’m worried about. I mean, Finley? Cap must be out for you.”

  “I don’t know, I’m coming around. Take away the bigotry and racism and that foul mouth of his, and he’s actually not that bad. I just wish I could understand him.”

  A laugh was instantly cut short.

  “Ah man, that hurt,” Ramirez groaned. “Gotta be careful. Stitches are killing me. Yeah, he’s hardcore,” he said. “Irish from the south side. He used to be a D-Boy. Did you know that? They nearly killed him when he switched sides. You see all his tats? He’s got a full body.”

  “No. I haven’t seen his full-body tats yet.”

  Ramirez snorted.

  “Well, look, Avery, thanks for the call. I feel a little tired so I’m going to go. Good luck with this new lead. I’ll be praying for you.”

  Avery grabbed a beer and moved out onto the balcony. Fast-moving clouds were scattered across a moonlit sky.

  She took a long swig.

  I got you, she thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Avery took two pills to sleep that night and set the alarm for seven; Art for Life didn’t open until nine, but she wanted to be ready.

  At six forty-five she awoke on her own, groggy and eager to start the day. She dressed in her usual attire and just swapped out the colors: brown slacks and a blue button-down shirt. Blue is calming, she thought. I want everyone to be calm today. The walkie-talkie was hitched to the back of her belt. Gun was locked in its holster. Badge was visible near her buckle.

  She glanced in the mirror.

  According to most people, she still looked like a knockout. However, flaws were all Avery could see: lines that hadn’t been there a few years ago, the weighed worry in her eyes, hair made unhealthy by so many bleachings.

  With a pouty face, a dancing twirl, and a pucker of her lips, Avery smiled.

  That’s the girl I know, she thought.

  Cambridge Street only had light traffic that early in the morning. Avery stopped for coffee and a bagel, and then parked her car on the opposite side of the street from the studio, about two doors down. The wait was the most annoying part of the job, and Avery settled in for the
long stretch.

  Surprisingly, John Lang appeared in Avery’s rearview mirror at close to eight thirty.

  He was lean and tall, not exactly a perfect body match to the killer, but it was her only lead, and there was a connection, and the way he walked reminded her of the killer: with a flair in his steps, all hips and hard feet.

  When he reached the office, Lang unlocked the door.

  Avery exited her car.

  “Excuse me,” she called from across the street. “Can I have a word?”

  Lang had an unpleasant face, thinning blond hair, and glasses. A frown wrinkled his brow as he watched Avery for a moment and then headed inside.

  “Hey!” Avery yelled. “Police.”

  She flashed her badge.

  Surprise and worry overcame John Lang. He tentatively peeked out the windows. Across the street, two people with coffee watched Avery jog to the studio. Resigned, Lang took on an imperious air and opened the door.

  “The shop is currently closed,” he said.

  “I’m not here about art.”

  “What can I help you with, Officer?”

  “I’d like to talk about Cindy Jenkins and Tabitha Mitchell.”

  A befuddled look crossed his face.

  “Those names mean nothing to me.”

  “Are you sure? Because both of those girls took art classes at this studio, and now they’re both dead. Maybe you’d like to revise that statement? Can I come inside?”

  During a long pause, Lang peered into the studio, at his computer, and then again out toward the street.

  “Yes,” he said, “but only for a minute. I’m very busy.”

  The studio was cool as if an air conditioner had been timed to turn on early. Lang dropped a bag on his desk, sat in a large black swivel chair, and turned to Avery. No seat was offered for her. A couple of cushioned stools were scattered around the space. Avery stood.

  “Cindy Jenkins and Tabitha Mitchell,” she said.

  “I told you, I don’t know them.”

  “They took classes here.”

  “A lot of people take classes here. Can I get a time period?”

  “Why don’t you look them up on your computer?”

  He flushed red.

  “Those files are routinely purged,” he said.

  “Really? You don’t keep client names and addresses so you can send fliers and emails? I find that hard to believe.”

  “We keep the names and addresses,” he said. “But the documents that we use when they first arrive for classes are destroyed, so I wouldn’t be able to give you a time period.”

  “You’re lying,” she said.

  “Am I being charged with something?” he demanded.

  “Have you committed a crime?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  Avery wasn’t convinced. There was something about the way he said the words, and the drift of his gaze, and the computer he refused to turn on.

  “How long have you worked here?” she asked.

  “Five years.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “Wilson Kyle.”

  “Does Wilson Kyle know you’re a registered sex offender?”

  Shame blushed on Lang’s cheeks, and the beginning of tears. He sat taller in his chair and glared at her with malice.

  “Yes,” he said, “he does.”

  “Where were you on Saturday night? And on Wednesday night?”

  “Home. I watch movies.”

  “Can anyone vouch for that?”

  On the verge of a breakdown, Lang practically shook from anger.

  “How dare you,” he hissed. “What are you trying to do? I’ve made amends for my past. I went to jail and had to seek out professional help and perform community service and have a red flag waved around for the rest of my life: ‘Sex Offender.’ I’m better now,” he swore as his body relaxed and the tears began to fall. “I’m different. All I ask is that you people just leave me alone.”

  He was hiding something. Avery could feel it.

  “Did you kill Cindy Jenkins and Tabitha Mitchell?”

  “No!”

  “Show me that computer.”

  A scrunched face and a shake of his head told Avery all she needed to know.

  “If you won’t log on and let me look at your search history right now, I’ll be back this afternoon with a warrant for your arrest.”

  “What’s going on here?” someone roared.

  A large, extravagant man stood in the doorway. He had perfectly cut, flowing white hair combed back from his face and a trimmed white goatee. Small, chunky black glasses framed angry green eyes. A crimson summer sweater was twirled over a white T-shirt. He wore jeans and black Crocs.

  Lang covered his face and instantly fell apart.

  “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”

  Avery flashed her badge.

  “And you would be?”

  “Wilson Kyle. I own this establishment.”

  “My name is Avery Black. Homicide. Boston PD. I have reason to believe Mr. Lang here might be implicated in two possible homicides.”

  He raised his brows in disbelief.

  “John Lang?” he said. “You mean him? The man cowering before you? You think he could be responsible for murder?”

  “Two girls from two different colleges,” she said and scrutinized every movement of John Lang, “positioned: one in the park and one in a cemetery.”

  “I’ve read about this case,” Kyle confirmed.

  A large palm went on John’s shoulder.

  “John?” he asked with a sensitive tone. “Do you know anything about this?”

  “I don’t know anything!” John cried. “Haven’t I been through enough?”

  “How exactly have you implicated him in these crimes?”

  “Those two girls both came here. He has a record. He has no alibi for the nights of the abductions and he won’t let me see what’s on that computer,” she said.

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “No, but I can get one.”

  Wilson Kyle lowered down with his immense presence and, with incredible patience and empathy, he tried to get John to hold his gaze.

  “John,” he said, “it’s all right. The police are trying to solve a crime. What’s on the computer that you don’t want her to see? You can be honest with me.”

  “I had to look!” he sobbed.

  “It’s all right, John,” he said and leaned forward to whisper, “I won’t judge you.”

  He rubbed John’s back, helped him up, and logged onto the computer.

  “Password?” he asked.

  John sniffled and rubbed his nose. A shake of his head and a soft, barely perceptible reply was whispered.

  Wilson Kyle typed in his password.

  “There you are, Officer Black,” he said. “Look and see. Come, John,” he added. “Let’s wait over here. It’s going to be all right. I promise. The officer just wants to confirm you’re not involved in a mass murder. You’re no murderer, are you, my boy? No, of course not, John. Of course not.”

  Avery sat at the desk.

  A quick search of the history revealed nothing. Art sites. Scrabble Word help and multiple artists and their works. She went through each day. On Tuesday, early in the morning, she saw a slew of pornography sites.

  She looked up.

  John was seated in a chair, his head down, hands in his face. Wilson Kyle stood behind him and glared at Avery like a great lord being forced to watch something unthinkable, and that fact made him angrier and angrier.

  Back to the computer, Avery clicked on a few of the links. Young children appeared, naked or half naked. Ages ranged from six to twelve. Utterly disgusted by what she saw, Avery clicked on other sites to try to make some rational argument as to why she should ignore what she found. Based on his proclivity for little children, it was hard for her to imagine him as the killer.

  “Do you know where he was on Saturday night?” she asked.

  “I do,” Wilson said. “Jo
hn was home watching a movie called Night of the Hunter. I know this because I recommended the movie, and he called me afterwards, I believe around ten o’clock, to express his feelings. I was unavailable, but I’m sure you can find that call if you check his phone records.”

  “Can you account for your actions this past week?” she asked Wilson.

  Wilson laughed.

  “Do you know who I am, Officer Black? No, of course not. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not famous in any way, or especially well connected, but I have a deep interest in my community, and if I’m not out with friends, I’m usually feeding the homeless or at a charity auction somewhere in town. So, to answer your question: Yes. I can account for my actions all month, but I’m afraid I’ll require a warrant before this can go any further.”

  You were wrong, Avery thought. This isn’t your guy. She could see right through these people. John was sick, and Wilson was a pompous, self-righteous prick. But they weren’t serial killers. They were too weak, both of them.

  She sighed. She was wasting her time here.

  She’d been in this place before—alone, no leads, out on a limb and bending the rules of her profession—but this time it felt personal. This time, it was about a serial killer. The last time Avery had dealt with a serial killer, she freed him and he killed again. Now it was as if that old case had been reborn again with this new killer, and if she could stop him somehow, she could free herself.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Avery said and made her way out.

  “Ms. Black,” Wilson called.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll deal with the pornography you just found, have no doubt. I’m curious, though. Do you know why John might have searched for those images? And do you know why he molested those children so long ago? Let me tell you so that you can get some perspective, and maybe you won’t walk into another house or office space later on, half-cocked and full of prejudice and insinuation. You see, John here was raped repeatedly by his father and his mother as a child.”

  John sobbed softly in his hands.

  Wilson held onto John’s shoulders like a protective angel.