by Unknown
The words cut deep. Tears formed in Avery’s eyes; she bit her lip and pushed them back. Images of her own mother were hard to face: the woman was usually drunk, rarely around, and extremely abusive. Are you like her? Avery wondered. No, she firmly declared. You’re nothing like her. You might not be the best mom, but you’re here, and you try.
“Accept me as I am or stop speaking to me after this,” Avery whispered. “Those are your only two choices. Because I am a real mom.”
Ahead of them, Connelly slowed down on a shady, tree-lined street beside a series of brownstones. One of them, less well kept than the others, had stairs leading down and a camera overhead to check visitors. Connelly parked, got out, and scanned the area. He took the keys from his belt and waved Avery on.
“This is it,” Avery said. “Follow me and keep your head low.”
Connelly used two keys on three locks.
They moved inside the first floor of the large, empty apartment. Thick crimson curtains blocked out the light. Floors were wooden and bare. In the living room, there was a couch and a television set. The kitchen had a microwave and a stove. A number of frozen dinners and soft drinks were in the refrigerator. There were two bedrooms toward the back. Both of them held beds with dressers and nothing more. Clean sheets and pillows were in a linen closet. A small backyard had overgrown grass.
Connelly checked everywhere: rooms, closets, both bathrooms, the locks on the windows, and the backyard before he returned.
“You should be all right here,” he said. “If you don’t mind being alone for a few hours, I can send someone over tonight to keep you company. The house is fully stocked. There are cameras everywhere except the bathroom, so that’s where you should go for some privacy. Back and front doors are both double-locked. We also have hidden cameras across the street in some trees that face the building, as well as in the back. No one can get to you here. I promise.”
“Great,” Rose mumbled. “Thanks.”
“Here are the keys,” he said to Avery. “I’m going to get back to the college dorm and see if anything has developed. When you’re ready, you can relieve me and my men.”
“Thanks,” Avery said. “For all of this.”
Connelly gave a sheepish nod and headed out.
Alone, the two of them appeared like strangers. Rose had her back turned in the kitchen. She ran a finger over the counter and groaned at the dust. Avery sighed and glanced around.
“You’ve got a TV and food. You need anything else?”
Rose shook her head.
“OK then,” Avery said. “I’m heading back to the university.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait,” Rose said.
Back turned to Avery, she mumbled, “I’m sorry. What I said in the car. That wasn’t right. I’m still angry, it just, wasn’t right.”
Avery hugged her from behind.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I always seem to let you down.”
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Avery was surprised that so much had happened in the short time she’d been away. Rose’s dorm room was filled with Rose’s two roommates, Thompson, Fagen, Connelly, and a sketch artist Avery had never seen before. A locksmith was already at work on the door.
“Fill me in,” Avery whispered to Connelly.
“Fagen pulled both of the girls from their classes. Turns out they were here when the guy showed up. He came yesterday afternoon: tall, maybe around six-two, and was dressed like a service agent in a green jumpsuit. Maybe Spanish or Latino, they couldn’t be sure. Very light skinned, green eyes, older. Walked with a limp. Thompson knew a sketch guy that could come in immediately. The dean and campus security have been alerted. The lock is being fixed,” he noted, “and a guard will be posted on the street for the next few days. Nobody wants this to be made public. I assigned Sullivan to watch the safe house.”
“That’s him,” one of the girls pointed. “That’s the guy.”
The sketch artist looked up; he was a thin, balding man with a short gray beard. On his lap was a large piece of white drawing paper. The image depicted was of an older Hispanic man with a shaved head and big, light eyes. He had a medium-sized forehead, high cheekbones, a strong chin, and small lips and nose. His neck was thick. The sketch ended around his shoulders.
“Yeah, that’s definitely him.” The other girl nodded. “He creeped me out. I mean, he was so nice and smiled a lot, but his eyes. It was like he could see through me.”
Avery took the picture.
“Let’s post this,” she said to Thompson. “Let’s not give him anywhere to hide. Make copies. Give it to the media. I want him on every news channel and in every paper by tonight.”
“On it.”
“And I want those bookstore lists,” Avery called after him.
“Are we good here?” Connelly asked. “I’ve got to move.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Thanks again.”
“No problem.”
Connelly left with the sketch artist and Fagen.
“You two going to be all right?” Avery asked the girls.
“Yeah, I guess,” one of them said. “This is really crazy.”
“The lock is being fixed,” Avery said, “and you’ll have a security guard watching the building until we resolve this. There’s nothing to worry about. Neither one of you were targets. This guy was just looking to scare me through Rose.”
“Where is she?”
“Safe,” Avery said, “out of harm’s way.”
She handed both of them a card.
“If anything happens, if you get scared or just want to talk, please call me. Rose should be back in a few days.”
*
Dirty and sweaty and exhausted from the constant rush of adrenaline all afternoon, Avery drove home to take a shower and change before she headed back to the office.
In the shower, water washed away the grime, but Avery was still mentally charged.
We’ve got a sketch, she thought. A name is on the way. Once those names connect, we’ll have him. The Northeastern girls are safe. What’s left? Go into the office, she told herself. Make sure Thompson has posted those pictures and plugged that face into the system. Check those bookstore lists yourself. Check on Rose. Bring her dinner.
A quick clothing change and Avery felt like new.
The sun had already set by the time she headed outside.
Street lamps lit the area.
She’d parked quickly and on the curb instead of the designated spot she’d been assigned. Her black, fully jacked police vehicle that doubled as an average, ordinary sports car was exactly where she’d left it with one noticeable difference: a letter had been left on the windshield.
The calm, more assured air she felt after the shower and clothing swap immediately dissipated, and Avery became fully aware of her neighborhood. Every house was scanned, the side streets and dark corners.
A man about a half block away had his back turned. He was bald and slightly shaded like a light-skinned Hispanic. He wore a heavy jacket despite the warm weather, jeans, and thick shoes. There was a hop in his step, and Avery couldn’t tell if it was a conscious addition, like a gangster-shuffle, or an actual limp.
She grabbed the letter.
The note was written in the same scrawled writing as the astrology killer.
I am always watching. You can’t hide.
In the darkness I can see you, even when you’re hiding.
I am everywhere.
Death.
Even when you’re hiding, Avery read.
Does he know where Rose is hidden? Is he going after her?
The man turned around a corner.
“Hey!” Avery yelled. “Hey!”
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
In a full sprint, Avery ran.
Her gun was out with the safety off.
“Stop!” she cried. “Police!”
The man was waiting for her when she turned the corner. His jacket was open and he pull
ed a gun with a long silencer on the end. The weapon made a soft, almost harmless ptew sound as it fired.
The night was quiet. There was a gentle breeze. Like a dream, Avery heard the gun eject bullets, and she felt the force of their trajectory as they glided past her face and arms.
She spun behind a car.
A single pang came from a bullet against metal and the silence returned. In the distance, there was the faint sound of an ambulance. A car beeped incessantly at some traffic jam many blocks away.
Avery shuffled toward the front of the car.
The gunman had performed the same move. Out in the open, he’d edged closer and arched around so that he had a clear shot; they were only thirty yards apart.
Avery stood up.
Both of them fired.
Avery hit him in his shooting arm. His hand dropped low but he continued to pull the trigger. Multiple bullets whizzed past her face. When his gun was empty, he twirled with a Capoeira-like move that evaded her return fire.
Despite the short distance between them and her excellent marksmanship, Avery missed every shot until her ammunition was gone.
She reached for another clip.
The attacker rushed forward.
She threw her gun in his face and kicked him in the groin. She could tell right away he was an experienced fighter. Her first blow was defended, and then his boot kicked into her stomach and she was hurled off her feet.
A passing car wailed on the horn.
The attacker jumped backward. Avery rolled out of the way. Without any thought to the scuffle in the street, the driver hit the gas and continued on.
The attacker lurched forward and stomped at Avery’s head. She rolled. He kicked into her side. Avery continued to roll. The next time he threw a kick, Avery avoided it and swept his legs. The man sank to the pavement. Avery was on him.
In jujitsu school, ground-fighting had always been her passion. The idea that special moves could be performed on the ground to disable an opponent had been like another world to Avery, and she’d soaked it up.
She punched down at her attacker’s throat. Again he proved that he was a seasoned fighter. Arms by his face, he evaded any serious damage, and when Avery took a breath, he struck. The man jabbed her in the stomach, pretended to twist one way and then quickly used all of his body weight to get out from under her.
Up on his feet, he ran.
Avery jumped up and gave chase.
A few people that had heard Avery’s gunfire or had inadvertently stumbled on the fray appeared in doorways to point and stare.
Light rain began to fall.
The damp atmosphere blended with Avery’s sweat and trickled down her face.
She was a good runner. Running had been her primary workout for years. Although she hadn’t sprinted in ages, it came back to her quickly. Her legs remembered the motion. Breathing became more fluid, and her arms pumped to a rhythm all their own.
The man obviously wasn’t prepared for a long struggle. A fast stumble made him sink to the street. His breathing was heavy as he darted through a breezeway. Avery kept her breathing steady and caught up to him fast.
She was twenty yards away, then ten, then five.
When she could reach out and grab him, she took two more long strides and jumped; her full body weight sank on him and they both went down. Avery made sure she was on top. She clamped her legs around his waist and leaned back. Punches to his head were deflected; she pummeled his body and waited for him to open up.
The second he tried to punch upward, Avery grabbed his arms and used them to get to his head. She caught him around the neck in a chokehold, dropped to the side, and squeezed. Legs scissored around his own legs to keep him from moving. He squirmed and fought but eventually—with the air blocked off from his lungs—he passed out. Avery squeezed him for the next five seconds—just to make sure his limp form wasn’t just a ruse—and then she let go.
A quick roll and she was on her feet.
Bent over, hands on her knees, she took in slow, deep breaths.
Rain continued to trickle down her forehead and neck. Once she’d recovered from the chase and fight, she sat on top of him and cuffed his hands behind his back. A quick search revealed only a metrocard.
“You have the right to remain silent,” she whispered. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
It wasn’t long before the police arrived. An ambulance came next. Two EMTs hopped out. Avery flashed her badge and pointed to the shooter’s arm.
“I hit him twice,” she said. “Stitch him up here.”
“Did the bullets go through?”
Avery shrugged.
The EMTs quickly realized the wounds were clear of metal. The shooter was stitched and bandaged. Two officers from the D14 precinct threw him into a car and agreed to take him back to the A1. Avery followed from behind. Although she was calmer, her heart was still beating fast. Skin tone: check. Shoe size: check. Redwings: check. Letter: check. What about his height? she wondered. Girls said he was six-two. This guy is maybe five-eight, five-nine. And he has brown eyes, not green. Still, Avery knew it had to be her man. I got him, she thought. I got that son of a bitch.
Thompson met her at the station.
While the two D14 officers carried him in, Avery insisted that Thompson fingerprint him on the move and then immediately run his prints. The D14 cops put the shooter in the interrogation room and cuffed him down.
Avery retrieved a bucket from the latrine closet. She filled it up and headed back.
People along the way stood up and called out. “Yo Black, what are you doing?” “You all right?” “Who is that guy?”
She wasn’t entirely rational. She knew that. In her mind, the rain still intermingled with bullets and her movement. At any time, I could have been killed, she thought. Any time.
The D14 cops were gone when Avery reached the room.
Thompson stood alone by the unconscious shooter.
“Prints are loading up now,” he said.
“Get me a handwriting expert,” she demanded.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Avery threw the water on her suspect.
With a deep intake of breath, he leaned back and coughed for air.
“Who are you?” Avery demanded.
He was groggy and uncertain about his location.
She punched him in the face.
“Who are you!?”
Half an hour later, Avery’s movements were slower and more labored. She headed back into the viewing area in frustration. The attacker tracked her from the room to behind the glass. His face had been considerably worked. Bruises lined his forehead and check. One eye was black. His nose was broken. Still, he smiled: a bloody, unforgiving smile.
“The graphology expert isn’t picking up,” Thompson said.
“Get me those bookstore lists.”
“Coming right up.”
Captain O’Malley edged into the room with a young rookie Avery had never seen.
“Heard you had a rough night,” O’Malley said. “Fill me in.”
“You know about the college?”
“Yeah. Connelly gave me the nuts and bolts. Is Rose all right?”
“So far so good. I called her on the way here, just to make sure. Sullivan is outside the safe house. Fagen will change shifts with him at one.”
“Is that our guy?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I went home to change. On the way to my car, I found a note in my windshield. Written in what seems to be the same handwriting and ink as our killer. This guy was walking away from his scene. I called out. He opened fire.”
“Were you shot?”
“No.”
“What about him?”
“Hit him twice in the arm. Ambulance stitched him up on the scene.”
A calm had come to Avery after the shootout and fight and interrogation. Things appeared clearer with perspecti
ve, and the more she stared at the man behind the glass, the more he started to look like Desoto. Like a close cousin, she thought. Or another brother. Similarly, the new letter had begun to sound slightly off, as if it were written by a lowly servant rather than a fervent believer of a cause.
O’Malley sensed her conflict.
“He fits the profile, right?” he said. “Approximate age and height, ten and a half shoes, Redwing. He put the letter on your car.”
“Not everything fits,” she replied.
“Did you grill him?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he say?”
Avery was disgusted by her own inability to extract a single word.
“Nothing,” she said. “Not a thing.”
Thompson came back in.
“This guy’s clean,” he said.
“Bullshit,” Avery snapped.
“He’s not in the system.”
“Double-check.”
“Why?”
“He’s got to be in the system,” she commanded. “He knows how to fight, shoot. Someone had to sell him those guns. He has to be connected. Check again.”
He handed over a single piece of paper.
“Here are your lists,” he gruffly replied.
In Thompson’s own hand were two lists. One was titled “Occult” and the other “Spiritual.” Both had a number of names written under them, but none of the names matched up. Under occult, there were six that could have been Hispanic in origin. Five more of a Hispanic origin were on the spiritual bookstore. Five, Avery thought. Five completely different names that might—might—have a connection.
She saw it all slipping away.
“Did you run these names?” she asked.
“None of them came up,” Thompson said. “Not even a parking ticket.”
Avery’s disbelief was hard to hide.
Thompson threw up his hands.
“I’m telling you what I saw.”
“What about Boston University? All the people that attended Williams’ class?”
“I don’t have that yet.”
“Why not?”
