Cause to Run

CHAPTER NINE

“Fuckin’ A!” Finley roared in a drunken stupor. “You just took out six members of the Chelsea Death Squad, including Juan Desoto? I don’t believe it. I don’t fuckin’ believe it. Desoto is supposed to be a monster. Some people don’t even believe he exists.”

“She did it,” Ramirez swore. “I was right there, man. I’m telling you, she did it. Girl is like a kung-fu master or something. You should have seen her. As fast as lightning. I’d never seen anything like it. How did you learn to fight like that?”

“A lot of hours in the gym,” Avery said. “No life. No friends. Just me, a bag, and a lot of sweat and tears.”

“You’ve got to teach me some of those moves,” he pleaded.

“You were doing pretty well there yourself,” Avery said. “You saved me twice, if I remember correctly.”

“That’s true. I did do that,” he agreed so that everyone could hear.

They were in Joe’s Pub on Canal Street, a cop bar only a few blocks away from the A1 police station. At the large wooden table was everyone who’d been on Avery’s previous Homicide Squad: Finley, Ramirez, Thompson, and Jones, along with two other beat cops that were friends with Finley. Homicide supervisor for the A1, Dylan Connelly, was at another table not far away, having a drink with some men that worked in his unit. Every so often, he glanced up seemingly to catch Avery’s eye; she never noticed.

Thompson was the largest person in the entire the bar. Practically albino, he had extremely light-colored skin, with fine blond hair, full lips, and light-colored eyes. A drunken gaze turned sour at Avery.

“I could take you,” he declared.

“I could take her,” Finley snapped. “She’s a girl. Girls can’t fight. Everyone knows that. This must have been a fluke. Desoto was sick and his men were all suddenly blinded by chick-beauty. No way she beats them cold. No way.”

Jones, a lean, older Jamaican, leaned forward with incredible interest.

“How you take Desoto?” he wondered. “Seriously. No gym shit. I be in the gym too and look at me. I barely gain a pound.”

“I got lucky,” Avery said.

“Yeah, but, how?” he truly wanted to know.

“Jujitsu,” she said. “I used to be a runner, back when I was in law, but after that whole scandal, jogging around the city wasn’t really my thing anymore. I enrolled in a jujitsu class and spent hours there every day. I think I was trying to purge my soul or something. I liked it. A lot. So much so that the instructor gave me keys to the gym and said I could go whenever I wanted.”

“Fuckin’ jujitsu,” Finley said like it was a bad word. “I don’t need no karate. I just call my crew and they go pop-pop-pop!” he cried and pretended to fire a machine gun. “They’ll blow everybody away!”

A round of shots were ordered to commemorate the event.

Avery played pool, threw darts, and by ten o’clock, she was hammered. This was the first time she’d ever actually hung out with her squad, and it gave her a true sense of community. In a rare, extremely vulnerable moment, she put her arm around the much shorter Finley at the pool table. “You’re all right by me,” she said.

Finley, seemingly bedazzled by her touch and the fact that a tall blond goddess stood next to him, was momentarily speechless.

Ramirez remained slumped over at the bar and sitting alone, where he’d been all night. A walk over nearly landed Avery face down on the floor. She put her arm around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.

“Does that feel better?” she asked.

“That hurt.”

“Aw,” she cooed. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll make it better.”

“Nah,” he mumbled.

“What’s wrong?”

Ramirez was distraught when he turned around.

“You,” he said. “You’re incredible at everything you do. What am I? I feel like I’m your sidekick sometimes. You know? Until you came along, I thought I was a great cop, but whenever we’re together I just see my flaws. This morning – who else could have stopped that guy from shooting that cop? At the dock, who else could have seen what you saw? Who else could have gotten Desoto to let you into his crib and then beaten Desoto? You’re just so good, Avery, it makes me question my own value.”

“Come on,” Avery said and pushed her forehead into his. “You’re a great cop. You saved my life. Again. Desoto would have cracked my neck in two.”

“Anyone could have done that,” he said and wiggled away.

“You’re the best-dressed cop I know,” she offered, “and the most enthusiastic cop, and you always make me smile with your positive attitude.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she pushed. “I get into my head too much. I could stay there for weeks. You force me out of my shell and make me feel like a woman.”

She kissed him on the lips.

Ramirez lowered his head.

“Thanks for that,” he said. “Really. Thanks. That means a lot. I’m OK. Just give me a minute, OK? Let me finish my drink and think about some things.”

“Sure,” she said.

The bar was even more packed than when they’d first arrived. Avery scanned the crowd. Thompson and Jones had left. Finley was playing pool. There were a couple of other officers she recognized from their office, but no one she particularly wanted to meet. Two well-dressed men waved her down and pointed at drinks. She shook her head.

Images flashed through her mind: Desoto’s hands around her neck, and the woman on the boat with her eerie shadow and star.

Avery ordered another drink and found a quiet table near a back corner. To anyone watching, she knew she must have looked crazy: a lone woman with a beaten-up face, hands on the table around a drink, and eyes focused squarely at nothing while she inwardly combed through the events of the day to find connections.

Desoto, dead end.

Parents, dead end.

Friends? Avery realized she needed to follow up with them at some point, probably sooner rather than later.

Why did the killer draw a star? she wondered.

She thought about the apartment where the murder had taken place, the books, the clothing in a hamper, and the missing rug. He’s big, she thought, and strong, and he’s definitely got a chip on his shoulder. Cameras were disabled, which means he’s also stealthy. Military training? Maybe.

She checked off another box.

Definitely personal, she mulled. Go back in Venemeer’s past. Find out who else worked at the shop, or dated her in school. Compile a list. After you have your list, maybe talk with the parents again so they can verify.

Pieces began to form, pieces to a puzzle she had yet to complete.

Ramirez stood right in front of her, watching.

“Hey,” Avery said and covered her face in embarrassment.

“Look at you.” He smiled back. “What are you doing?”

A blush painted her cheeks.

“This is how I work,” she said.

He sat down next to her.

“How?” he asked. “Tell me.”

“I just…go through it in my mind,” she said. “All the facts. All the pieces. Try to mentally look for connections. I create a checklist of leads to pursue so we don’t let anything fall through the cracks. I have to be thorough.”

“Why?” he asked. “Why are you so good at this?”

The image of her father came to her, shotgun in hand, the muzzle pointed at her face. “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!”

Escape, she thought.

That was all Avery had wanted for most of her life: to escape from her past. But escape meant she had to have a plan, and plans always had a way of going awry.

“It was the only way out,” she said.

“Out? Of what?”

Avery faced him, and shared a piece of information she hadn’t said aloud in years.

“I was an orphan. Did you know that?”

Ramirez sat back in awe.

“No!” he cried. “I would have never pegged you as an orphan. I’m a really bad cop.”

“Don’t think that.” She smiled and held his hand.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I was a foster kid for about six years. I went through a lot of homes, was picked up by a few families. House mothers. That’s what they’re called. They get paid to take in young children with nowhere else to go. Everybody’s happy. The state gets to wipe their hands clean of wayward children. Crappy people get to have slaves.”

“Avery. I am so sorry.”

“There was this one house mother – ”

A newspaper was slapped down on the table.

Dylan Connelly stood above them.

“You seen this?” he said. “It’s the late edition. All over the Internet. A copy of the letter was mailed to A7. O’Malley is waiting on us. Wants the entire team in to go over what you’ve discovered so far. It’s from your killer.”

The cover of the paper read: Murder at Marina, and showed a shot of the victim on the bow of a yacht docked to a pier. Lines from the article stood out: “Saliva swab on the letter matches that of the slain woman,” and “Possible bookstore connection.” Avery was mentioned twice by name: once as an investigator from the A1 brought in to help with the case, and once as a possible love interest of captured serial killer Howard Randall.

A smaller caption read: Letter from the Murderer! The picture displayed a zoom-in of words scrawled on paper.

Avery flipped to the page.

The letter was a full side. The killer’s note was written like a poem:

Avery set it down, her entire body trembling.

More will come.

She knew, with sudden certainty, that he was right.

CHAPTER TEN

Before Avery and Ramirez even walked into the A1 conference room, they could hear O’Malley screaming into the speakerphone.

“Completely unacceptable, Will! You were supposed to share everything with us. We’re handling this case now. But instead, you received a huge piece of evidence and decided to keep it for yourself. When were you going to call us?”

“We just received the letter this afternoon,” Holt blared back from the speaker.

“How did the papers get it?”

“They got a copy. We have the original here, but the killer made copies. The way I understand it, he sent them to every newspaper.”

“No way the papers would know that splotch on the bottom of the letter was a saliva swab. That had to come from your department. So you got the letter, you had forensics check it out, you matched the saliva to the victim, and then you told someone. That’s the only way this could have happened, Will. The first call you should have made was to Detective Black. Do you know where I am right now? I’m in the office. You know where I should be? I should be in bed with my wife. But instead, I’m here. That’s because you didn’t do your job, and now we have a publicity nightmare on our hands and the mayor is pissed.”

“Calm down, Mike, calm down.”

“I won’t calm down until you tell me the truth!”

“The truth is, we had no idea that letter was connected to the victim we found this morning. It came in the regular mail, it was opened by one of our staff, and someone had the foresight to send it to forensics. It just so happened that there was a match.”

“Who called the papers?”

“They must have called us.”

“The leak definitely came from your department.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“You’d better handle it, and next time, we expect a call.”

He hung up.

“Shit!” he cried.

Dylan Connelly sat down.

“Captain, why don’t you go home?” he said. “I can handle this.”

“I can’t go anywhere just yet,” O’Malley replied, “because the mayor pulled me into his Everybody-Holds-Hands crime campaign and now I’m screwed. Don’t worry. I’m going home soon. You’re here to learn everything you can from Black and Ramirez and act as a liaison with Simms over at the A7 so this doesn’t happen again. You two are friends, right?”

“We were in the academy together.”

“Good. Once we’re through here, call him up. If he doesn’t want to talk to myself or Black, he’s at least got to talk to you.”

“It might not be his fault,” Avery said. “He was a little busy earlier.”

“Oh yeah,” O’Malley snapped. “That reminds me. Nice face,” he noted to Avery. “What the hell were you doing in the gang den of Juan Desoto?”

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