Cause to Kill. Blake Pierce
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her attacker. The back of her skull smacked into his nose and she could almost hear a “crack.” The man swore under his breath and released her.
Run! Cindy pleaded.
But her body refused to comply. Her legs gave out from beneath her, and she fell hard on the cement.
Cindy lay on her back, legs splayed and arms out at opposite angles, unable to move.
The attacker kneeled down beside her. His face was obscured by a sloppily placed wig, a fake moustache, and thick glasses. The eyes behind the glasses sent a chill through her body: cold and hard. Soulless.
“I love you,” he said.
Cindy tried to scream; a gurgle came out.
The man nearly touched her face; then, as if aware of their surroundings, he quickly stood.
Cindy felt herself gripped by the hands and pulled through the alley.
Her eyes filled with tears.
Someone, she mentally pleaded, help me. Help! She remembered her classmates, her friends, her laughter at the party. Help!
At the end of the path, the small man lifted her up and hugged her tight. Her head flopped on his shoulder. He lovingly stroked her hair.
He grabbed one of her hands and twirled her around like they were lovers.
“It’s all right,” he said loudly, as if it were meant for others, “I’ll get the door.”
Cindy spotted people farther off in the distance. Thinking was difficult. Nothing would move; an effort to speak failed.
The passenger side of a blue minivan was opened. He plopped her inside and carefully closed the door so that her head rested on the window.
On the driver’s side, he entered and placed a soft, pillow-like sack over her head.
“Sleep, my love,” she said, turning the ignition. “Sleep.”
The van pulled away, and as Cindy’s mind faded into darkness, her final thought was of her future, her bright, unbelievable future that had suddenly, horribly been snatched away.
CHAPTER ONE
Avery Black stood in the back of the packed conference room, leaning into a wall, deep in thought as she took in the proceedings around her. Over thirty officers packed the small conference room of the Boston Police Department on New Sudbury Street. Two walls were painted yellow; two were glass and looked out upon the department’s second floor. Captain Mike O’Malley, early fifties, a small, powerfully built Boston native with dark eyes and hair, kept moving around behind the podium. He seemed to Avery to be perpetually restless, uncomfortable in his own skin.
“Last but not least,” he said in his thick accent, “I’d like to welcome Avery Black to Homicide Squad.”
A few perfunctory claps filled the room, which otherwise remained embarrassingly silent.
“Now, now,” the captain snapped, “that’s no way to treat a new detective. Black had more arrests than any of you last year, and she nearly singlehandedly took down the West Side Killers. Give her some respect,” he said and nodded toward the back with a noncommittal smile.
Head low, Avery knew her bleached-blond hair hid her features. Dressed more like an attorney than a cop, in her sharp black pantsuit and button-down shirt, her attire, a throwback from her days as a defense lawyer, was yet another reason that most within the police department chose to either shun her or to curse her name behind her back.
“Avery!” The captain raised his arms. “I’m trying to give you some props over here. Wake up!”
She looked around, flustered, at the sea of hostile faces staring back. She was starting to wonder whether coming to Homicide was a good idea after all.
“All right, let’s start the day,” the captain added to the rest of the room. “Avery, you, in my office. Now.” He turned to another cop. “And I want to see you too, and you, Hennessey, get over here. And Charlie, why you running out of here so fast?”
Avery waited for the throng of police officers to leave, then as she began to make her way toward his office, a cop stood in front of her, one she had seen around the department but had never formally greeted. Ramirez was slightly taller than her, lean and sophisticated in appearance, with tan Latin skin. He had short black hair, a shaved face, and although he wore a nice gray suit, there was an ease about his stance and appearance. A sip of coffee and he continued to stare without emotion.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“It’s the other way around,” he said. “I’m the one that’s going to help you.”
He offered a hand; she didn’t take it.
“Just trying to get a bead on the infamous Avery Black. Lot of rumors. Wanted to figure out which ones were true. So far I’ve got: absentminded, acts like she’s too good for the force. Check and check. Two for two. Not bad for a Monday.”
Abuse within the police force was nothing new for Avery. It had started three years ago when she entered as a rookie cop, and it hadn’t let up since. Few in the department were considered friends, and even fewer trusted colleagues.
Avery brushed past him.
“Good luck with the chief,” Ramirez sarcastically called out, “I hear he can be a real asshole.”
A limp, backhanded wave was offered in reply. Over the years, Avery had learned it was better to acknowledge her hostile partners than avoid them completely, just to let them know she was there and wasn’t going away.
The second floor of the A1 police department in central Boston was an expansive, churning engine of activity. Cubicles filled the center of the expansive workspace, and smaller glass offices surrounded the side windows. Cops glared at Avery as she passed.
“Murderer,” someone muttered under his breath.
“Homicide will be perfect for you,” said another.
Avery passed a female Irish cop whom she had saved from the clutches of a gang den; she flashed Avery a quick glance and whispered, “Good luck, Avery. You deserve it.”
Avery smiled. “Thanks.”
Her first kind word of the day gave her a boost of confidence that she took with her into the captain’s office. To her surprise, Ramirez stood only a few feet outside the glass partition. He lifted his coffee and grinned.
“Come on in,” the captain said. “And close the door behind you.”
Avery sat down.
O’Malley was even more formidable close up. The dye job on his hair was noticeable, along with the many wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He rubbed his temples and sat back.
“You like it here?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this, the A1. Heart of Boston. You’re in the thick of it, here. Big City Dog. You’re a small-town girl, right? Oklahoma?”
“Ohio.”
“Right, right,” he muttered. “What is it about the A1 you like so much? There are a lot of other departments in Boston. You could have started at Southside, B2, maybe D14 and got a taste of the suburbs. Lots of gangs out there. You only applied here.”
“I like big cities.”
“We get some real sickos here. You sure you wanna go down that road again? This is homicide. A little different than beat.”
“I watched the leader of the West Side Killers flay someone alive while the rest of his gang sang songs and watched. What kind of ‘sickos’ are we talking about?”
O’Malley watched her every move.
“The way I hear it,” he said, “you got played – hard – by that Harvard psycho. He made you look like a fool. Destroyed your life. From star attorney to disgraced attorney, then nothing. And then the