by Unknown
Avery tried to keep him focused.
“Anyone in particular?” she said. “Someone she might have upset? This person is most likely a man, very well versed in astrology, strong, and angry.”
He lowered his chin and eyed Avery from above his glasses.
“This is an occult bookstore,” he said. “Crazy comes with the territory.”
“Someone was murdered,” Avery said. “Try to keep some perspective. I’m looking for a man capable of murder that had a relationship with Henrietta Venemeer and possibly worked in this shop or came into this shop often.”
He thought about it for a moment.
“You know?” he realized. “I’ve got a customer that used to come in here all the time—still does occasionally—and he hated Henrietta. He worshiped black magic, astrology, voodoo, all of that stuff, and said he was going to make sure she paid for her insults. Creepy guy. Even by my standards.”
“You didn’t think that might have been relevant information for the police?”
“For what?” he cried. “People make idle threats all the time. Henrietta didn’t care. If I put out an APB for every voodoo witch doctor that wanted to stick pins in my side, I’d be out of business.”
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“Harold Bowler. Lives in one of those fancy houses on Columbia Road, right by the water. Very rich. And very, very strange. Venemeer wasn’t the only one he hated, either. He’s one of those guys that has so much money, it warps their mind. They begin to think they’re gods or something, and that they can do anything.”
“Anyone else come to mind?” Avery asked.
“Nah, that’s it,” he said and pointed to a necklace in his case. “Want a protection charm?”
Avery patted her gun.
“I’ve got all the protection I need.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Avery sat in her car, door open and one leg out, while she researched Harold Bowler. Sure enough, he was in the system: six unanswered speeding tickets, a DUI, aggravated assault, animal cruelty, public nuisance, public indecency, and endangering the life of a minor, which was filed by his own brother.
That’s some rap sheet for a millionaire, Avery thought.
His DUI arrest showed the picture of a cocky, thickset man, possibly in his late thirties or early forties, with recently cut brown hair and an impervious stare that reminded Avery of hedge fund managers and multimillionaires that weren’t afraid of anything, including the law.
Ramirez walked up to the car just as Avery was about to close the door.
“Where are you parked?” she asked.
“Just down the street.” He pointed.
“Get in, I’ll drive.”
He seemed hesitant.
“What’s with you?” Avery demanded. “There’s a lot going on right now and I need my partner. Is this about your day off or something, because I’m off too.”
“It’s nothing like that.” He waved it off.
“Then what is it?”
An unkempt air surrounded Ramirez. He still had the bruises from his fight with Desoto. His hair was frizzed without gel. The slacks he wore lacked a certain sharpness.
“Last run for you and I,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t want you as my partner anymore,” he said and gave her a long, hard stare right in the eyes. “I already talked to O’Malley.”
Avery stood up.
“What? Why?”
“You!” he shouted. “It’s always about you. Whatever Avery wants, Avery gets. You’re the best shot. You figure everything out. You take on five guys with no problem—”
“Is that what this is about? I can fight better than you?”
“I don’t care about your fighting,” he said. “I like you—a lot! How many times do I have to say that? But you don’t care about me, and you sure as hell don’t need me on the job. I thought we had something,” he lamented. “And I want more than this, but it’s too confusing. Every time you call, I’m not sure if you’re calling for me, because you miss me and want to see me, or if you’re just calling about the job. By the way, it’s always about the job.”
“Dan,” she said.
“No. Don’t do that. It’s over. I already asked for another assignment. I’m here because I wanted to tell you in person.”
The revelation was a shock for Avery. She never thought Ramirez cared so deeply. No, she instantly argued. That’s a lie. You knew he wanted more, you just weren’t ready to give it, so you played both sides and now you got burned.
“We have a lead,” she said. “You want to come along?”
Ramirez laughed.
“You see? You’re incredible, really. I just poured my heart out to you. I’m hurting. This hurts me,” he said and pounded on his chest, “and that’s the first thing you say to me?”
She wanted to say more.
She wanted to shout: I do care! I want you to hold me and make me feel like I’m a part of something bigger than criminals and dead bodies! But she couldn’t. A killer was out there, waiting. Time kept ticking by, and she was standing in the street having an argument with someone when lives were at stake.
“I’m really screwed up, aren’t I?” she said.
“You are!” He laughed. “Thank you for recognizing that.”
“I’m going to work on this,” she said. “I promise. I’ll fix this. Right now, though, can we just put this on hold for a second and track down a lead?”
Ramirez breathed out a sigh.
“Sure,” he said. “Why not? One last ride.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Tension was thick in the car as Avery drove the two of them to the coast. Ramirez had his head turned for most of the way.
“You hear about the latest victim?” she said.
“That woman could be anybody.” Ramirez shrugged.
“What did you hear?”
“Still no positive ID. Prints weren’t helpful. They’re sending her picture around.”
“So you’ve been working all day,” she noted. “Doing what?”
“Doing my job!” Ramirez said and faced her. “What do you mean ‘doing what’? I care about this job just as much as you, Avery. The difference is, I know when to turn it off and on. You have no off switch. You’re always on. Were you on when you kissed me? What about when we held hands and stared into each other’s eyes? Was that all to make me a more dedicated partner or something?”
“Of course not! I can’t believe you think that.”
“I don’t know what to think,” he snapped.
A few minutes later he resumed the conversation.
“I followed a bunch of dead leads I got from Venemeer’s friends. On my own,” he stated with a grudge, “just like you. Guess I’m picking up all your habits.”
Avery refused to get into another argument, especially with a man she wasn’t even dating who was supposed to be her Homicide partner.
Harold Bowler’s house was a red three-story colonial mansion in white trim that overlooked the beach. Groomed shrubbery surrounded a grass lawn.
Avery parked out front.
“This guy’s got a lot of citations, including aggravated assault. I’ll need some backup on this one. Are you with me?”
“I’m right here,” Ramirez complained without meeting her gaze.
Two cars were parked in the driveway: a sleek, black Mercedes sports car and an old but brilliantly remodeled red Mustang convertible.
“Look’s like he’s home,” Avery said.
Up a set of white stairs to the front door, Avery could clearly see the lawn. A post was planted in the lawn’s center. Most of the grass had been eaten away, and there were droppings everywhere.
“That doesn’t look like dog poop,” Ramirez noted.
“How do you know that?”
“It just doesn’t. Look at it. Does that look like dog poop to you?”
A strange chant was coming from inside the hou
se, loud enough to be heard from the porch. Avery peeked into a few windows and saw nothing.
She rang the bell.
Nothing changed. The music continued and no one answered.
She pushed the bell again. The front door was locked. She gave Ramirez a look and pointed around the house. They each went their separate ways. Avery moved into the shrubs and over the mangled lawn. First-floor windows were too high to peek through. Basements were nonexistent since the house was so close to the ocean. Two of the second-story windows she saw were blacked out. She met Ramirez at the back door, which was also locked. The music continued to pound, a tribal chant of some kind.
Avery glanced around the neighborhood and then quickly thrust her elbow into one of the small windows on the back door. Glass shattered.
“Hey,” Ramirez said. “What are you doing?”
Avery shrugged.
“The door was broke. We thought it was a robbery and went in to investigate.”
He shook his head.
“Great. Now we’re felons.”
Music hit her when she stepped inside.
“Hello?” she called. “Is anyone home? Harold Bowler? Are you in here? Your door was broken and unlocked. Are you all right?”
The expansive kitchen could have fit fifty people. A grand piano stood in the living room. Everything in the house was bare, with minimal furniture and polished wooden floors. Bookshelves were everywhere and filled with bound texts on everything from magic to religion. Avery and Ramirez checked every room and closet. Lots of masks, tribal gear, and clothing, but no weapons, and nothing astrological.
A set of stairs to the second floor. Avery unholstered her gun.
“Windows were blacked out up top,” she whispered to Ramirez.
“Harold Bowler!?” she called out. “This is the police. Are you in here?”
Stomping noises sounded above the music, and an animal cry of some kind.
Avery picked up her pace.
Gun low, she reached the second level and turned. There were multiple white doors and a long hallway that branched off in two directions. One of the doors was shut; underneath was darkness and sporadic flashes of light. The music pounded even louder.
Ramirez checked the other rooms and closets while Avery kept watch on the dark room from which the noise emanated. When Ramirez returned, he shook his head.
Behind the questionable door, a man’s voice cried out. The words were violent and unintelligible. An animal’s cry turned into a gurgle and silence. More screams came from the man above an eerie African beat.
Avery put her back against one side of the door. Ramirez mirrored her position on the other side. Both had their guns out and high. Ramirez gave her a nod.
Avery turned the doorknob and thrust it open.
“Police,” she cried.
The dark room was only lit by lava lamps, four of them, one in every corner, each a different color: pink, green, yellow, and blue. No furniture was anywhere, only blankets. The walls were littered with masks and symbols written in what appeared to be blood.
On his knees, and with a large knife in his hands, was Harold Bowler. Shocked at being discovered, he moved his gaze from Avery and Ramirez to the large, dead goat that lay before him, throat slit and oozing blood.
Ramirez moved around the room and turned off the electronics.
Music was silenced.
Avery flicked on the light.
Bowler’s initial surprise at the intrusion turned to outrage.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” he yelled.
Unabashed at his naked form, he stood up and pointed the weapon at Avery.
“You’re in a lot of trouble, lady.”
Avery flashed her badge.
“We’re police,” she said. “We heard screams coming from your house. The door was busted so we came in. What are you doing?”
“This is private property,” he said. “I can do whatever the hell I want.”
“Is this some kind of ceremony?” Ramirez asked.
“Get the hell out of my house!”
“We need to talk,” Avery said. “Now. Put on some clothes.”
Bowler threw the bloody knife to the ground. In a sentimental moment, he lowered to his knees, kissed the dead goat, and whispered in another language.
“What did you just say?” Avery asked.
“Fuck you,” he snapped.
As Bowler grabbed a shirt and underwear, he said: “What’s your name? Detective Black? Black? I know you. You’re that cop from the papers, right? Well, let me tell you what tomorrow’s headline is going to read: Hero Cop Fired for Breaking And Entering. How does that sound, Black?”
Bowler led them into another room with a bed and a lounge chair.
He doesn’t limp, Avery noticed.
He slumped into the lounge and threw up his hands.
“What could this possibly be about?” he demanded. “Is this about those speeding tickets? Chump change. I don’t have time for that, you understand? You want some money? There’s tons of money in that top dresser drawer over there. Take it and leave. You just screwed up about a month of preparation. But I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“What were you just doing?” Avery asked.
“I’m a Bokor,” he said with pride and tapped his chest, “a voodoo priest with very heightened spiritual powers. That goat in there is Fanny. The ceremony was designed to destroy my financial competitors and bring a new wave of wealth to my technology sector, which could use all the help it can get. The gods are going to be pissed now. I could sue you, you know that? Let me think about how much I stand to lose because of your stupidity.”
He tapped on his chin and pretended to think.
“This is crazy,” Ramirez said. “He’s in his house killing a goat, and he wants to sue us.”
“In his house,” he cried. “Those are the relevant words. I’m in my house. No nuisance laws are being broken. I don’t intend to sell Fanny to any hungry hobos. No animal cruelty is happening here. She was killed quickly, in my own house, for the purposes of a religious ceremony. The only ones breaking the law right now are you two.”
“Harold Bowler,” Avery said, “are you familiar with the death of Henrietta Venemeer?”
He laughed.
“Yeah, I’m familiar with it,” he said. “Too little, too late, as far as I’m concerned. I was trying to get that bitch killed for years. Used some of my most powerful magic. But I was a novice back then,” he admitted. “Made a lot of mistakes. What about it?”
Avery’s heart quickened.
“You knew her?”
“Yeah, I knew her. I had to deal with her every time I wanted a book. Like dealing with the Gestapo. Made me feel like an idiot half the time. I hated her. Good riddance. Why are you here? Are you here because of Venemeer?” He laughed again. “That’s a good one. You think I killed her or something?”
“Where were you on the night of the murder?” Avery asked.
“Oh man, this is priceless.” He smiled. “You do think I killed her! You must really need some help on this one, don’t you? To come to me, of all people. I don’t give a shit about Venemeer. All that was years ago. I don’t carry grudges. I live in the moment. I can account for myself every night this week,” he said and rambled off a number of the best restaurants in Boston. “You ever have the quail dish at DuPovre’s? No. Of course not,” he said. “That would cost more than your weekly salary.”
He kicked his legs up onto the armrest.
The bottom of his feet were bare and caked in dried blood. And they were small.
Eight and a half, Avery realized. Nine, tops.
He’s not our guy.
She could easily assess that Harold Bowler was a jerk: he practically bribed them to leave, and he must have been violating some kind of laws with a dead goat in his house, but Avery had no idea which ones. Regardless of his actions, he had no limp, his shoe size didn’t match up, and he felt all wrong
for Venemeer. She tried to ease out of the situation with as much dignity as possible.
“We came by your house to discuss a murder case,” she noted. “We saw your door downstairs had a broken window—”
“Oh, that’s great. So you broke my window, too?”
“We heard screaming,” Avery continued. “We thought there might be a robbery taking place, so my partner and I headed into your house. No one answered our calls. You’re obviously not the person we’re looking for.”
“Yeah, but I’m looking for you now, Black,” he said with one eye closed and a finger pointed at Avery. “You’re right in my line of sight.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Lost among the crowds at the New England Aquarium in Central Wharf, he felt out of place and more alone than when he was by himself. He moved through a glass tunnel and gazed around at all the fish and sea creatures in the glistening blue water above his head.
Children screamed around him and parents pointed.
He lost sight of his victim often. There was no real need to keep track of her. She was on a blind date and taking her time, and his journey was all about patience, and timing.
In one of the aquarium rooms, a large, shallow pool had been created where people could touch stingrays. His victim was having the time of her life. She was young, only in her late twenties, very pretty with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. Her date splashed water on her. She grabbed him and laughed. He couldn’t laugh. In fact, the scene made him angry, so angry that the red visions appeared again, and he was forced to put his face in a wall and take in the slow, timed breathing he’d learned in a meditation class.
Relax, he whispered in his mental mantra.
He flashed on a memory of the girl. Her mouth was flat and her eyes held only disdain and impatience. All he’d wanted was help, and guidance. What did he get? A rote answer and a hand that waved him to another line. She was the problem, he thought. Not me. Now she’s going to help me solve everything.
In room after room, he tried to enjoy himself. If he’d learned anything from the wait before a kill, it was that joy in his surroundings produced calm, and calm allowed the time to go by much, much quicker. The penguins appealed to him, as did the jellyfish tank.
