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

by Blake Pierce

  “I’m surprised you’re still talking to me.”

  “Yeah,” he smiled, “you’re hot.”

  The words seemed to have slipped out, and when he realized they’d been said aloud, he blanched and blushed and tried to backtrack.

  “I’m sorry. That was totally unprofessional. I—”

  “It’s fine.” She flirted with her most winning smile. “Seriously.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” She nodded and leaned in close. “Really. Can you help me?”

  “Sure, sure. You’re lucky I’m still here. I was supposed to be off by now. Let’s see,” he thought and scanned his computer. “What do you need?”

  “The cell phone number and home address of Jessica Givens.”

  He peeked up over his screen. A lock of his wavy black hair covered one eye. He was young, probably in his early twenties.

  “You know, I’m not supposed to give out personal information.”

  Avery leaned closer.

  “What’s your name?” she whispered.

  “Buck.”

  “Buck,” she said with her lips, and then she lowered her voice and looked both ways as if they were being secretly watched,

  “I’m close to finding this killer, Buck. Jessica Givens has information that could help.”

  Suddenly, he appeared worried.

  “Did he attack someone here? I thought it was just Harvard and MIT.”

  “Let’s just say no one is safe, Buck. Every college girl is a target. But Jessica Givens,” she stressed and pointed toward the door, “she knows something. Something important. A piece of information that could solve this whole case. I can’t trust anyone else. I’m on my own here. Can you help me? Just between us. No one else has to know.”

  “Shit, ” he whispered. “Sure,” he said. “Sure, if it’s that important, all right,” he cheered, determined, and he gave her what she needed.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I hope you realize that you could have just single-handedly helped me catch this killer.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she whispered in her best, seductive voice.

  A finger went to her lips.

  “Remember, our secret.”

  “Definitely,” Buck said. “Just between us.”

  Avery quietly backed away and slipped out the door. The second the sunlight hit her face, she dialed the number given.

  “Hello?” someone answered.

  “Is this Jessica Givens?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Hi, Jessica. My name is Avery Black. I’m one of the investigators on the Molly Green case. I understand you already spoke to Talbot Diggins?”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “Are you the counselor Detective Diggins spoke with about Molly Green?”

  “Yes, I am. But this is a private line. I’m with family right now.”

  “Molly Green is dead, Ms. Givens. We’re trying to track her killer. This will only take a second. You said the victim was stressed about her job interview process, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How was that problem resolved?”

  “She received a job offer from an accounting firm about a month ago.”

  Accounting firm, Avery thought.

  Cindy Jenkins was hired by an accounting firm.

  “Do you remember the name?”

  “Of course,” Jessica said, “it’s one of the biggest firms in Boston. I was surprised she was hired. Her academic performance wasn’t like some of the other students who applied to the same company. It was Devante. Devante Accounting in Boston financial.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Just after sunset on the Bentley University Campus in Waltham, the killer parked his car in a lot to the north of College Drive and walked south, across the pavement.

  An uneasy feeling churned in his stomach.

  He was on the hunt for his fourth victim, and yet it was such an unexpected activity.

  Months before he began to plan for his first human kill, he was assured by the voice of the All Spirit—who had guided him in each and every phase of the operation—that three was the number of girls needed: three kills to unlock the doors of heaven.

  The radical change had come during his drop-off of Molly Green.

  As the killer had driven to the predetermined spot for her placement in Belmont, a spot that he was sure would please the All Spirit, an angry voice had screamed in his mind: More. It had to be a mistake, he was sure. The All Spirit had only needed three. More, the voice had repeated—again and again. Worried, sweaty, and unsure of himself, the killer knew the drop-off for Molly Green would have to be changed to account for the shift. In a panic—and he never panicked—he’d scouted Belmont and was lucky enough to find the children’s park with the mural that would at least hark to the future and please his god.

  He, however, had not been pleased.

  A new girl meant not just one, but more, a seemingly never-ending supply.

  He had other interests, other desires. Animals, for one. His passion for collecting animals off the streets. He loved cats, a wounded bat had even made it into his house once, a creature that he had loved and cared for, before it was given immortality.

  Botany was another hobby. No time had been allowed in the previous months to augment his mixtures and test them out on live animal subjects. Everything had been for the All Spirit, a god that had become an increasing presence in his life.

  More girls…he thought.

  More…

  His reward for the trinity was supposed to be immortality in human form, and a place in heaven with the other celestial beings. But now, he didn’t feel immortal, in fact, he felt feverish and extremely emotional. This new game, this new plan, it went against his innermost desires, and he began to think cruel thoughts about the All Spirit.

  High in the sky, the face of his god frowned, and a booming echo seemed to shake the land itself: More!

  Yes, I know, the killer mentally shouted to the sky. More! Don’t you see, I’m here? I’ve been watching her? I know where she is. The plan is set. The placement is set. Everything is under control! he assured the All Spirit. Only he didn’t feel under control.

  Unlike the other kills, where he’d been imperious, where he had felt the protection of the All Spirit—to the degree that if he’d killed someone in public, in broad daylight, not a single person would have noticed now, all eyes seemed to gaze on him.

  Outside of the parking lot was an expansive grass lawn.

  A movie screen had been erected.

  It was Saturday Night Movie Night at Bentley, and the classic cinema on display was the black and white masterpiece Casablanca.

  Hundreds of individuals and couples and groups of students were splayed out on the lawn to watch the movie. Some of them were on blankets, others in chairs. The boldest among them had brought wine and beer to the event.

  He carried with him a blanket and sunglasses.

  His target? A senior named Wanda Voles. A reconnaissance mission the night before had informed him of her destination this night. Apparently on the outs with her boyfriend, she’d decided to come to the movie and be alone. Her friends had begged her not to spend a precious Saturday night at such a lame event, but Wanda had been adamant. “Casablanca is like, my favorite movie,” she had told those in attendance.

  He picked this night for several reasons. One of the main reasons was that in the back of his mind, he hoped she wouldn’t show up. The thought had been blasphemous and yet undeniable. “I don’t want to do it! I don’t want to do it!” he’d screamed. The All Spirit had refused to listen. Pain had wracked his body in that moment.

  Now, he moved along the outskirts of the large crowd. Every so often, he peeked up to see Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman embrace or fight.

  Wanda sat on the western edge of the lawn, alone but surrounded by other students.

  He picked a spot about twenty yards behind her. Wa
nda’s dorm, he knew, was about a ten-minute walk east, through the parking lot and over a number of winding and narrow pathways where they might be alone.

  On his blanket, the killer pretended to watch the movie.

  Don’t do it, his mind blared. Don’t do it!

  I have to do it, he roared back.

  The pain in his stomach, like a hand that suddenly closed into a fist, made him curve forward. The All Spirit filled his mind. More! the god blared. More! More! MORE!

  I know, he pleaded. I’m sorry.

  No joy could be taken in the movie. Every climactic scene only reminded him of the desperate urgency of his own situation, and the people everywhere, and his guilt. It was wrong, all wrong, and he couldn’t say it out loud; he couldn’t even think it.

  When the credits rolled, Wanda Voles collected her blanket and personal items and headed home. Many of the students remained on the lawn. There was a lot of kissing and laughing. Numerous small exoduses took place along the edges. A few people moved beside Wanda.

  He stood up only seconds after Wanda had passed and followed her out. Just another ordinary student, he told himself. Lies, his mind blared. Stop it! he fought. More! the All Spirit roared. The decree shook him and reverberated throughout his being. To those nearby, he seemed to have an epileptic shiver.

  Calm yourself, he thought.

  He tracked Wanda through the parking lot. She passed right by the killer’s car. A few lines of students were headed in the same direction, only they were further away.

  Alone, he thought. She’s alone. Now!

  None of the joy, the ease, and the personal investment were there. The power of the All Spirit had left him. Yet he had to go on. As always, the All Spirit watched and waited.

  Wanda was ten feet in front of him. She began to hum a tune.

  His ruse was prepared. He would greet her, pretend that he’d come to see the movie with his daughter and then complain about his car tire. She would lower down to help him check the pressure and that’s when the needle would be placed. No fuss. No witnesses. Just a young girl that disappeared in a parking lot.

  Five feet behind her.

  He prepared his needle.

  Four feet and she was about to enter a new line of cars.

  Three feet and he opened his mouth to speak.

  In front of Wanda, a student jumped out from behind a car.

  “Rah!” he roared with his arms up.

  Wanda jerked back in fright.

  He instantly turned and walked in a perpendicular direction. Behind him, he could hear the boy laughing. “I got you good!” Wanda screamed back, “You scared me half to death!” “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he apologized, “but man, that was good! I saw you coming and I just had to do it. What are you up to? It’s too early to.”

  Their conversation faded in the background.

  Relief flowed through the killer, a desperate relief at being saved from his crime. It wasn’t right, he told himself. I knew it wasn’t right. I have to rethink. I have to replan. Don’t worry. Don’t worry, he placated his god. This will be fine. I promise.

  High above, the All Spirit growled in disapproval.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A dreamy, surreal quality had taken control of Avery Black.

  There was no memory of her final words with Jessica Givens, or when she’d hung up or where she’d put her phone.

  She stood in the dark of the Brandeis campus. Ahead of her were a rolling green field and a line of trees and the stars. Behind her were red brick buildings illuminated by lower lights.

  Calm down, she told herself.

  You’ve been down this road before.

  The memory of her near-assault on John Lang from Art for Life was still fresh in her mind, along with the captain’s reprimand and the extended weekend she’d been given to think about her actions.

  You were taken off the case, remember?

  Not anymore, she answered.

  Cindy Jenkins had been hired by Devante. Molly Green had been hired by Devante. What about Tabitha Mitchell?

  On the way to her car, Avery dialed Finley. The phone rang numerous times before his voicemail picked up. He’s avoiding me, she thought. Five more calls were placed. The results were the same. Every time, Avery left the same message, only with more urgency:

  “Finley. We’ve got a connection. Jenkins and Green were both hired by the same firm in Boston. You have to get back to me. Did Tabitha Mitchell have any kind of job lined up for her senior year? Call me back as soon as you get this.”

  Avery sat in her BMW and logged onto her dashboard computer.

  Devante was a private company based in Boston.

  General information was all she could find online: the founder of the company, chairman of the board, the CEO, and the statewide structure.

  A quick search revealed the vast number of jobs within an actual accounting firm: staff accountant, junior and senior level accountants, tax manager, tax auditor, CPA…. The list was seemingly endless.

  Who hires college girls? she wondered. It has to be some kind of human resources head that scouts out colleges and finds likely applicants. That person would most likely then take resumes and distribute the promising ones to the people in charge of whatever positions happened to be open within the company.

  How would I find out who scouted and saw the resumes of those two girls?

  The answer was obvious, and tricky given her currently diminished status within the Homicide division. You have to get to the Chairman or the CEO, she realized. Only they can give you access to the right people. She laughed. OK, how do I do that?

  A warrant, she thought.

  You’re going to need a warrant.

  Warrants were difficult to get. Probable cause was necessary. In this case, Avery was confident that the connection between the girls and the company that planned to hire them was enough probable cause for a warrant. However, a judge would also want to know that items connected to the crime might be found at the offices of Devante. That might be a problem, she thought, unless the affidavit included computer information. If the killer has anything related to the case on his computer, I can use that to bolster a warrant.

  Sleep on it tonight, she thought. Don’t make a mistake. Wait for Finley to call. Get everything in place before you go to the captain.

  Her mind blared back: Not on your life.

  She put the car in gear and headed out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Avery sauntered into the A1 police department at just past ten in the evening. The first-floor receptionist was dealing with an officer and a prostitute. Throughout the rest of the office, plainclothes officers booked drunken college students and took statements. A fight broke out in the back and it took three cops to subdue a tremendous white man.

  Police jobs weren’t like normal jobs.

  The majority of officers didn’t just come in at eight or nine and leave at five everyday. Similarly, weekends were almost never free unless an employee had seniority or the entire department was on a revolving schedule. In the A1, everyone worked in shifts—five-day shifts that could be from Wednesday to Sunday, and if someone was on a case, they could work all night, every night, and well into the morning.

  Avery recognized a few familiar faces. However, no one seemed to pay her much mind. Weekend night shifts had a certain feel to them, like being in a cemetery after staying up for forty-eight hours straight: everyone was in a haze and had a rhythm all their own.

  On the second floor, Connelly was arguing with Thompson.

  Thompson looked like two men rolled into one, a giant that loved to hit the gym, and combined with his pale skin and full lips and light blond hair, he usually made other police—and perpetrators—extremely uncomfortable.

  “Why am I still here?” Thompson complained.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Connelly snapped. “I just gave you a job and you didn’t do it. I don’t care if you’re here until four AM.”

  “Car dealers
hips!?” Thompson roared and stood to his full height. “How many fucking dealerships are open on Saturday night? My shift ended hours ago. Here’s a list from Watertown and Belmont.”

  “I asked for Waltham, too. And I asked you for numbers, and for the direct contacts at each company. I don’t see anything here for Belmont,” he complained and flipped through a list.

  Avery sat back on someone’s desk and waited for them to finish.

  Connelly glanced up.

  “What the fuck are you doing here? Didn’t the captain tell you to take a rest?”

  “Can we talk?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to say to you. Get lost. You’re not back until Monday.”

  She indicated Thompson.

  “You’re wasting his time.”

  “I told you!” Thompson followed. “This is a waste of my fucking time.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Connelly snapped and pointed in his face. “Black, I swear to God. If you’re not out of my sight in five seconds I’m going to personally see you off Homicide and back to beat for the rest of your life.”

  Avery lowered her head.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said in a calm, even tone. “And you need to listen to me. I’ve got a lead. A big one,” she emphasized and looked him right in the eyes. “We need to talk this through. And we need to be on the same team. Do you want to catch a killer? Or do you want to stay pissed off at me because you think you know me, or because I was assigned to your team, or because I used to have a better life than you?”

  She pushed off the desk.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve done anything to offend you,” she said, “but I’m right here. Right now. Just like you. Swimming in the shit. And I haven’t let up on finding this killer, and I’ve finally got a lead. This can’t wait until Monday. If you kick me out, I’ll just call the captain, and then the chief, and then anyone else who will listen to me.”

  Thompson pointed at Avery with heartfelt concern.

  “Listen to her,” he pleaded.

  “Shut the fuck up, Thompson! Sit down.”