Читать книгу Cause to Kill - Blake Pierce, Блейк Пирс - Страница 12

In her dreams, Avery was with her family again.

Her ex was an athletic man with cropped brown hair and dazzling green eyes. Avid climbers, they were on a hike together with their daughter, Rose; she was only sixteen and had already received an early admission to Brandeis College, even though she was only a junior in high school, but in the dream she was six. They were all singing and walking along a path surrounded by dense trees. Dark birds fluttered and cried out before the trees morphed into a shadowy monster and a knife-like hand stabbed Rose in the chest.

“No!” Avery screamed.

Another hand stabbed Jack and both he and her daughter were hoisted away.

“No! No! No!” Avery cried.

The monster lowered.

Dark lips whispered in her ear.

There is no justice.

Avery jolted awake to the sound of incessant ringing. She was still on the terrace in her robe. The sun had already come up. Her phone continued to blare.

She picked up.

“Black.”

“Yo Black!” Ramirez answered. “Don’t you ever pick up? I’m downstairs. Get your shit together and get out here. I’ve got coffee and sketch samples.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“Give me five minutes,” she said and hung up.

The dream continued to permeate her thoughts. Sluggishly, Avery rose and headed into the apartment. Her head pounded. Faded blue jeans were tugged on. A white T-shirt was made respectable by a black blazer. Three chugs of orange juice and a downed granola bar was breakfast. On the way out, Avery glanced at herself in the mirror. Her attire, and her morning meal, were a far cry from thousand-dollar suits and daily breakfast at the finest restaurants. Get over it, she thought. You’re not here to look pretty. You’re here to bring in the bad guys.

Ramirez handed her a cup of coffee in the car.

“Looking good, Black,” he joked.

As always, he appeared to be the model of perfection: dark blue jeans, a light-blue button-down shirt, and a dark-blue jacket with light-brown belt and shoes.

“You should be a model,” Avery grumbled, “not a cop.”

A smile displayed his perfect teeth.

“Actually, I did do a little modeling once.”

He pulled out of the breezeway and headed north.

“You get any sleep last night?” he asked.

“Not much. How about you?”

‘“I slept like a baby,” he said proudly. “I always sleep well. None of this gets to me, you know? I like to let it ride,” he said and waved his hand through the air.

“Any updates?”

“Both boys were home last night. Connelly put a watch on them just to make sure they didn’t bolt. He also talked to the dean to get some information and make sure no one freaks out about a bunch of plainclothes cops hanging around campus. Neither kid has a file. Dean said they’re both good boys from good families. We’ll see today. Nothing yet from Sarah on the facial recognition. We should hear something this afternoon. A few dealerships called me back with names and numbers. I’m just going to keep a list for a while and see what happens. You see the morning paper?”

“No.”

He pulled it out and threw it on her lap. In big, bold letters, the headline read “Murder at Harvard.” There was another picture from Lederman Park, along with a smaller photo of the Harvard campus. The article inside rehashed the editorial from the previous day and included a smaller picture of Avery and Howard Randall from their days in court together. Cindy Jenkins was mentioned by name but there was no photo given.

“Slow day in the news?” Avery said.

“She’s a white girl from Harvard,” Ramirez replied, “of course it’s big news. We gotta keep those white kids safe.”

Avery raised a brow.

“That sounds vaguely racist.”

Ramirez vigorously nodded.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “I’m probably a little racist.”

They wove through the streets of South Boston and headed over the Longfellow Bridge and into Cambridge.

“Why’d you become a cop?” she asked.

“I love being a cop,” he said. “Father was a cop, grandfather was a cop, and now I’m a cop. Went to college and got bumped up quick. What’s not to love? I get to carry a gun and wear a badge. I just bought myself a boat. I go out on the bay, chill out, catch some fish, and then catch some killers. Doing God’s work.”

“Are you religious?”

“Nah,” he said, “just superstitious. If there is a god, I want him to know I’m on his side, you know what I mean?”

No, Avery thought, I don’t.

Her father had been an abusive man, and while her mother faithfully went to church and prayed to God, she was more of a fanatic than anything else.

The voice from her dream returned.

There is no justice.

You’re wrong, Avery replied. And I’m going to prove it.

* * *

Most Harvard seniors lived off-campus in some of the residential housing units owned by the school. George Fine was no exception.

Peabody Terrace was a large high-rise set along the Charles River near Akron Street. The white, twenty-four-story building included an expansive outdoor patio, beautiful lawns, and a clear view across the river for those students lucky enough to be placed on the higher floors; George was one of them.

A number of buildings connected Peabody Terrace. George Fine lived in Building E on the tenth floor. Ramirez parked his car along Akron Street and they made their way inside.

“Here’s his picture,” Ramirez said. “He should be asleep right now. His first class isn’t until ten thirty.”

The image was a smaller crop of a larger picture pulled of the Internet. It showed a disgruntled, extremely cocky student with oily black hair and dark eyes. A slight grin was on his face; he seemed to be challenging the photographer to find a flaw with his perfection. A strong jaw and pleasant features made Avery wonder why he was called a weirdo. He looks confident, she thought. So why stalk a girl that obviously has no interest in him?

Ramirez flashed his badge at the doorman.

“You got problems?” the doorman asked.

“We’ll know soon enough,” Ramirez replied.

They were waved up.

On the tenth floor, they turned left and walked down a long hallway. Carpets were tan brown swirls. Doors were painted glossy white.

Ramirez knocked on Apartment 10E.

“George,” he said, “you around?”

After a brief silence, someone said: “Get lost.”

“Police,” Avery interrupted and banged on the door. “Open up.”

Silence again, then ruffling and then more silence.

“Come on,” Avery called. “We don’t have all day. We just want to ask you a few questions.”

“You got a warrant?”

Ramirez raised his brows.

“Kid knows his stuff. Must be ivy educated.”

“We can have a warrant in about an hour,” Avery called out, “but if you make me leave and jump through hoops, I’m going to be pissed. I already feel like shit, today. You don’t want to see me pissed off, too. We just want to talk about Cindy Jenkins. We heard you knew her. Open the door and I’ll be your best friend.”

The bolt unlocked.

“You really do have a way with people,” Ramirez realized.

George appeared in a tank top and sweatpants, extremely muscular and toned. He was about 5’6”, the same height Avery associated with the killer based on Cindy’s records. Despite the look of someone that was either on drugs or who hadn’t slept in days, a fearlessness burned in his stare. Avery wondered if he’d been bullied for years and had finally decided to strike back.

“What do you want?” he said.

“Can we come in?” she asked.

“No, we can do this right here.”

Ramirez put his foot inside the room.

“Actually,” he said, “we’d rather come in.”

George looked from Avery to Ramirez – to the foot holding the door open. Resolved, he shrugged and backed away.

“Come on in,” he said. “I have nothing to hide.”

The room was large for a double occupancy, with a living space, terrace, two beds on opposite sides of the room, and a kitchen area. One bed was neatly made and piled with clothing and electronic equipment; the other one was a mess.

George sat on the messy bed. Hands beside him, he gripped the mattress. He appeared ready to lurch forward at any moment.

Ramirez stood by the terrace window and admired the view.

“This is some place,” he said. “Only a studio, but grand. Look at this view. Wow. You must love looking out at the river.”

“Let’s get this over with,” George said.

Avery pulled a chair and sat down facing George.

“We’re looking into the murder of Cindy Jenkins,” she said. “We thought you might be able to help us, seeing as you were one of the last people to see her alive.”

“A lot of people saw her alive.”

The words were meant to sound tough, but there was pain in his eyes.

“We were under the impression you liked her.”

“I loved her,” he said. “What does that matter? She’s gone now. No one can help me.”

Ramirez and Avery shared a look.