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

by Blake Pierce

  He curled a finger at Avery and pointed to the conference room.

  “Three minutes,” he said. “You’ve got three minutes.”

  Once they were alone, Avery laid it out. “I know I’ve made some mistakes.”

  “Some!?”

  “Stupid mistakes,” she added, “but it was all in the line of duty. I made a few other mistakes today. I went back to see Howard Randall.”

  Connelly howled and waved a hand.

  “He gave me a clue,” Avery continued, “or,” she added, “something like a clue. I couldn’t figure it out until I went to Brandeis.”

  Connelly slapped his head.

  “You went to Molly Green’s college? You were told to stay off this case.”

  “Will you shut up!” she yelled. “Just for once? Please?”

  Surprised, he folded his arms and stood back.

  “I talked to someone in the guidance department. She told me that Molly had a job lined up with Devante Accounting. Well, guess what? Cindy Jenkins also had a job with Devante. I don’t know about Tabitha yet. Finley was supposed to talk to the mother. I haven’t heard back from him. Tabitha was a junior, but if she was hired by them too, that’s too much of a coincidence to ignore, don’t you think?”

  “Your last connection turned out to be shit.”

  “But it was a connection, the only one between two of those girls, until now. If we can link the third girl to Devante, we’ll be closer than we’ve ever been.”

  “Finley’s off duty,” he mumbled.

  “So?”

  Connelly walked away and mulled over the situation. In a gray suit and blue shirt that appeared too small for his muscular frame, he rolled his shoulders and rubbed the blondish stubble on his skin, seemingly annoyed but intrigued.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  “What are you—”

  “I said wait!” he snapped and walked out.

  Beyond the glass, she could see him give instructions to a very flustered Thompson before he went to his own desk and started to make a call.

  Avery sat in the conference room for nearly twenty minutes. With nothing to do, the burden of her knowledge finally out, she felt more relaxed and oddly comforted. An intense desire to call her daughter made her reach for the phone.

  What would you say? she wondered.

  Tell her that you were an idiot, and that you still are. Tell her the truth: that you love her and you’ll make this right, no matter what.

  The conference door opened.

  “Tabitha Mitchell was a junior,” Connelly said. “She was graduating early, top of her class. And she was offered a job at Devante Accounting.”

  Avery sat up.

  “Holy shit.”

  The connection was there. Howard Randall had been right. His words rang out: He has to find them, watch them, know them from somewhere. When she went down the list with Randall—one a senior, one a junior—he’d said no.

  He knew, she realized.

  The sickness Avery had felt at having to visit Randall and ask for help now began to wash away. The connection had been made, and if she could fit all the pieces together, there was hope: for her, for her future, to leave the past behind.

  “Three of them,” Connelly said. “All of them had jobs at Devante.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Finley’s been calling the Mitchell house. I called the mother’s cell. She was sleeping. Started crying the second I told her it was about her daughter. But she had the information we needed. What’s fucked up is, I think the papers said the same thing yesterday or the day before.”

  That’s how he knew, Avery realized. Randall read the papers.

  They both stared at each other in silence.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “You tell me.”

  She glanced away and bit down on her lower lip.

  “We need a name. Who was the hiring manager that met with all those girls?”

  “Whoever it is,” Connelly said, “he must know that at least two of the girls he hired are dead. It’s been all over the news.”

  “If two girls you hired were found dead in under a week, would you call someone?”

  “Not if I was guilty.”

  Connelly immediately put the conference room phone on speaker and called the captain. Agitated and sleepy, a remote O’Malley listened to both Avery and Connelly on speakerphone and took his time before he answered.

  “Wait until the morning,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do right now. I’ll call the chief and the mayor first thing Sunday. Shit,” he mumbled. “Devante. They’re huge.”

  “We’ll start with the CEO and work our way down,” Avery said. “Someone has to have a list of names and job titles. I’m assuming our killer works in human resources.”

  “Try to get some sleep tonight,” the captain said, “both of you. It might be a big day tomorrow. I’ll meet you in the office at eight. Avery, if you can’t sleep, start on the warrants: one for the company and one for an unnamed individual within the company. You can also call Devante and see if there’s a weekend staff. I doubt anyone will pick up at this hour, but it’s April. You never know.”

  The line went dead.

  Uneasy in his stance, Connelly refused to look at her.

  “Let’s hope this works out,” he said and left.

  Avery completed as much paperwork as she could on two warrants. She called at least ten numbers listed for Devante’s Boston office. No one answered.

  Go home, she told herself.

  Sleep was the furthest thing from her mind.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  Sunday felt like a Monday for Avery.

  She was up and energized at seven. Strangely enough, she slept like a baby the moment she’d arrived home, probably the best night’s sleep she’d had in months.

  She threw on a black pantsuit and white button-down. As always, she wore black Skechers sneakers on her feet. The days of high-heel Manolo Blahniks were long gone. After breakfast and a cup of coffee, she stood in her foyer and stared at herself.

  Go get him, she said.

  A twinge of doubt invaded her thoughts. There had been so many close calls already, so many leads that had turned up dead. No, she thought. This is the one. It has to be.

  On the way to her car, she surveyed the landscape of her life as a cop: traffic duty, petty crimes, domestic disputes, gang warfare, and now this, her biggest case, a homicide detective on the trail of a serial killer. This is what you’ve been working toward for the last three years, she told herself: a chance to make amends for the past, to close the Howard Randall chapter for good and to step out of the shadows of miserable regret, and live.

  Weekend morning shifts at the A1 changed at eight. Most of the office was empty from the transition, with a large majority of the force either on the streets or on their way into work. Connelly was already there, along with the chief and Thompson.

  The chief was in jeans and a red BPD T-shirt, the most casual Avery had ever seen him. On the phone, he waved her into his office with the rest of the group.

  “Hold on,” O’Malley said into the line, “I’ve got Black here. Let me put you on speaker and we can get this handled right now.”

  A gravelly voice emanated through the room.

  “Hello? Can everyone hear me?”

  O’Malley mouthed “The mayor.”

  “We’re here,” he said.

  “Detective Black,” the mayor said as if the words were distasteful in his mouth, “I hear you’ve been relentless on this case, even after you were dismissed. How sure are you about Devante? You know Miles Standish is a good friend of mine.”

  O’Malley mouthed “The owner.”

  “I highly doubt that Mr. Standish has anything to do with this,” Avery said. “We believe the killer is someone within his offices, most likely a human resources manager or liaison that would have met with these girls, read their resumes, and then passed them on to the proper depar
tments.”

  “I asked how sure you are about Devante, Ms. Black. Are you positive this is the best lead? I have a very difficult call to make.”

  “Three girls are dead,” she said. “Each one of them is from different schools, and yet they all had jobs lined up at Devante. It’s the only connection that makes sense. I’m one hundred percent sure.”

  “Good,” the mayor said. “Mike,” he added, “I’ll call Miles now. Expect to hear from him soon. If he doesn’t cooperate, get your warrant and do what you have to do. I want this case wrapped up by Monday.”

  “Yes sir,” O’Malley said.

  When the mayor hung-up, O’Malley addressed the group.

  “OK,” he said, “here’s how we’ll do this. Avery, you’re lead. That shit you pulled the other day was way out of line, but since you cracked this thing, you should see it through. We’ll discuss your future later on. Connelly is your supervisor. You’ll have Thompson and whomever else we can pull together once we have all the information. Thompson.” he said and paused for a minute to find the right words, “I used to think you were this freakish Irish giant that would come into this office and make things happen. Sadly, none of that happened In fact, I think you’re lazier than Finley. Scratch that,” he instantly corrected, “I was wrong about Finley. He’s been working his ass off. Everyone makes mistakes. You, however, had better amaze me today. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Thompson swore.

  Fifteen minutes later, the call they’d been waiting for arrived. O’Malley instantly touched speakerphone.

  “O’Malley here,” he said.

  A perky young voice filled the room.

  “Hi there!” she said. “This is Laura Hunt. I’m the personal assistant to Mr. Miles Standish. I was told to call and provide whatever information you might need about Devante.”

  O’Malley waved at Black.

  “You’re on,” he said.

  “This is Avery Black,” she said. “I’m not sure if you’ve been informed, but we have a serial killer on the loose with a possible connection to the Devante Accounting Firm.”

  “Yes, Ms. Black, I’ve been fully briefed.”

  “What we need is a name, someone that would have met with each of these college students and then either offered them jobs, or rerouted them to another department within the company where they were hired.”

  “OK,” she said. “Can I ask which Devante firm we’re talking about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we have offices in Boston, Chicago, and San Antonio.”

  “The Boston office.”

  “OK, hold on one second. Here it is. Timothy McGonagle is the president of Human Resources for the Boston office. I don’t think he deals directly with college recruiting, but you can either talk to him or someone on his staff,” and she offered his cell phone number, home number, and home address.

  “How many people does McGonagle have under him?” Avery asked.

  “There are twenty-eight other human resources workers.”

  “If I have problems, can I call you directly?”

  “Absolutely,” she said and gave Avery her number. “Mr. Standish wants to help in any way possible. He simply asks that you try and keep the Devante name out of the papers if possible. We wouldn’t want people to associate any crimes with our accounting firm.”

  “Understood,” Avery said.

  The phone call ended shortly after and O’Malley surveyed the group.

  Avery wanted to see Timothy McGonagle for herself, up close and personal. Even if he wasn’t the person directly responsible for the crimes, it was becoming almost certain that he hired a killer, or he hired someone that had hired a killer. A quick background check revealed nothing on McGonagle: not even a parking ticket.

  “All right,” he said, “get to it. I have a sweet sixteen to attend.”

  * * *

  McGonagle wasn’t far from the A1. He lived in the affluent neighborhood of Beacon Hill just north of the offices, close to Lederman Park. Connelly stayed behind to oversee two gang-related squads and to try and pull together a team for Avery if needed.

  Thompson was assigned as her partner for the day. He kept his mouth shut for most of the ride and sat awkwardly in Avery’s passenger seat, his body scrunched in tight.

  “Where you from?” Avery casually asked.

  “Boston,” he mumbled.

  “Where in Boston?”

  “All over.”

  “What made you want to be a cop?”

  A frown appeared on his albino-like face, and his fat lips curled in a sneer.

  “What is this? Twenty questions?” he barked.

  Avery parked on Pinckney Street.

  McGonagle lived in a large, brick-faced home with white shutters and a red door sunken into an outdoor foyer space. Thompson remained on the edge of the entrance and looked like he wanted to be anywhere but around Avery Black. His size and strange appearance, however, were a magnet for people that walked by; even if they were on the other side of the street, they crossed and stared closely into his face as they passed.

  The bell rang and was quickly answered.

  “Hello?” someone called.

  Tim McGonagle was younger than Avery had expected, maybe in his mid-thirties, with black hair and bright green eyes that seemed to always be calculating figures. He was dressed in gray slacks and a pink button-down shirt and a green tie.

  Five eight or five nine, she thought. Too tall. The height doesn’t match up.

  “Can I help you with something?” he asked.

  “Avery Black,” she said, “Boston Homicide.”

  “Yes, I see. A celebrity officer in person.” He smiled.

  He noticed Thompson before he turned back to Avery.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Have you been following the serial killer case?” Avery asked.

  “I have,” he said.

  “Are you aware that three of the victims were recently hired by your firm?”

  “No,” he said, “my god, that’s awful.”

  ‘What exactly do you do at Devante?”

  He waved inside.

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  “No, thank you.”

  A female voice called out from somewhere deep in the home.

  “Timmy? Who is it?”

  “Hold on one second, Peg,” he called. “I’m the president of the Devante Human Resources Department for the Boston Division,” he said to Avery. “My main responsibilities are to hire and manage the staff. I oversee problems within the company, any major employee/employer disputes, things of that nature. The only resumes I see are for high-level staff we may need, such as a CEO position or a head auditor.”

  “Who recruits for the colleges?”

  “One of my employees. His name is Gentry Villasco, but honestly, I can’t imagine him doing anything like this. He’s an administrative director. He heads up a team of four. They oversee colleges, college resumes, and they do scouting on campuses.”

  “If a college student wanted a position at your firm, they’d have to go through him?”

  “That’s right. His team might sift through applicants and weed out the best resumes, but eventually they’d go to him. If Gentry liked what he saw, he would then pass them onto the appropriate department where a position had opened.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him? Is he single? Married? What does he like to do on weekends? Does he have friends?”

  Timothy laughed.

  “Gentry is definitely not a killer,” he said. “He’s a loner, that’s for sure, a little older than I am. Maybe in his fifties? Has a house out in West Somerville. Commutes to work. He’s a people-person but he keeps to himself, if you know what I mean? He’s worked at Devante longer than I have, about fifteen years.”

  Avery gave him the hard stare.

  “Are you sure you have no knowledge of the three victims in question? Let me tell you their names again, in
case you forgot: Cindy Jenkins, Tabitha Mitchell, and the last one hasn’t hit the papers yet. Molly Green.”

  “I’ve never heard of any of them,” he said and then instantly corrected himself. “Well, I’ve heard of the first two, but not within the company. I read the papers. I’m familiar with the case,” and he stood taller and held her gaze.

  “Are you going to be home all day?” Avery asked.

  “Well, my family and I are planning on going to church in a little while. We’re just having breakfast with the kids.”

  He seemed both honest and genuinely disturbed by the connection to Devante. A family man, Avery thought. She stepped back and tried to imagine a killer with a wife and family.

  “Here’s my card,” she said. “Please call me if you can think of anything else.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear about all this.”

  Thompson was leaning on the brick facade with his foot kicked up, oblivious to everything except the sky.

  Avery slapped him in the chest as she walked past.

  “Hey!” he complained.

  “Next time you want to act like a doorstop,” she said, “go back to the office.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  A quick conversation with Laura Hunt and Avery was in possession of the cell phone number and address of Gentry Villasco, as well as the names, addresses, and contact information for everyone on his team, just in case Villasco turned out to be a dead end.

  Of the four people who worked for Gentry, two were women and two were men. The women lived in Chelsea and Boston, respectively, both well outside of Avery’s general range of the killer’s home. The first man commuted from South Boston, also outside the range. The last one lived in Watertown: Edwin Pesh. Watertown was one of Avery’s hotspots. She circled his name and hopped in the car. As she drove, Thompson plugged in all the names into the database for a background check. One of the girls had ten outstanding parking tickets. The man from South Boston had been arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct a year earlier. No records were found on the other two.

  Gentry Villasco lived on a wide-open street in Somerville. His house was a very small, narrow, two-level Tudor home painted white with brown trim and a brown roof. Multiple trees shaded his driveway. A white Honda Civic was parked before a closed garage.