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turned to his guard.
“Davis,” he said, “show them up. Give them whatever they need. If there are any problems,” he said to Avery, “please come and find me.”
When they were on their way, Ramirez whistled to himself.
“What a charmer,” he said.
“Whatever it takes,” Avery whispered.
The security office at Top Real Estate was a buzzing room filled with over twenty television screens. The guard sat down at the black table and keyboard.
“OK,” he said. “Time and place?”
“Loading dock. About two fifty-two and then let’s move forward.”
Ramirez shook his head.
“We’re not going to find nothing.”
The real estate cameras were of a much higher quality than the smoke shop, and in color. Most of the viewing screens were of a similar size, but one in particular was large. The guard put the loading-dock camera on the larger screen and then spun the image backwards.
“There,” Avery called. “Stop.”
The image halted at two-fifty. The camera showed a panoramic view of the parking lot directly across from the loading dock, as well as left, toward the dead-end sign and the street beyond. There was only a partial view of the alley that led toward Brattle. A single car was parked in the lot: a minivan that appeared to be dark blue.
“That car’s not supposed to be there,” the guard pointed.
“Can you make out the license?” Avery wondered.
“Yeah, I got it,” Ramirez said.
All three of them waited. For a while, the only motion came from cars on the perpendicular street, and the motion from trees.
At two-fifty-three, two people came into view.
They might have been lovers.
One was a smaller man, wiry and short, with thick, bushy hair, a moustache, and glasses. The other was a girl, taller with long hair. She wore a light summer dress and sandals. They appeared to be dancing. He held one of her hands and spun her around from the waist.
“Holy shit,” Ramirez said, “that’s Jenkins.”
“Same dress,” Avery said, “shoes, hair.”
“She’s drugged,” he said. “Look at her. Feet are dragging.”
They watched the killer open the passenger door and place her inside. Then, as he turned and walked around to the driver’s side, he looked directly into the loading-dock camera, bowed in a theatrical way, and twirled to the driver’s side door.
“Holy shit!” Ramirez howled. “Motherfucker is playing with us.”
“I want everyone on this,” Avery said. “Thompson and Jones are full-time surveillance from now on. Thompson can stay at the park. Tell him about the minivan. That will narrow down his search. We need to know what direction that car was heading. Jones has a harder job. He needs to get over here now and follow that van. I don’t care how he does it. Tell him to track down any cameras that can help him along the way.”
She turned to Ramirez, who stared back, shocked and impressed.
“We’ve got our killer.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Exhaustion finally hit Avery at close to six forty-five in the evening, on the elevator ride up to the second floor of the police station. All the energy and impetus she’d received from the morning revelations had culminated in a day well spent, but a night with countless unanswered questions. Her light skin was partially burned from the sun, her hair a mess, the jacket she’d worn earlier strung over her arm. Her shirt: dirty and untucked. Ramirez, on the other hand, appeared even more refreshed than he had in the morning: hair slicked back, suit almost perfectly pressed, eyes sharp and only a dab of sweat on his forehead.
“How can you possibly look so good?” she asked.
“It’s my Spanish-Mexican bloodline,” he proudly explained. “I can go twenty-four, forty-eight hours and still keep this shine.”
A quick, squeamish glance at Avery and he moaned: “Yeah. You look like shit.”
Respect filled his eyes.
“But you did it.”
The second floor was only half full at night, with most of the officers either at home or working the streets. The conference room lights were on. Dylan Connelly paced around inside, obviously upset. At the sight of them, he threw open the door.
“Where the hell have you been?!” he snapped. “I wanted a report on my desk at five o’clock. It’s almost seven. You turned off your walkie-talkies. Both of you,” he pointed out. “I might expect that from you, Black, but not you, Ramirez. No one called me. No one answered their phones. The captain is pissed too, so don’t go crying to him. Do you have any idea what’s been happening around here? What the hell were you thinking?”
Ramirez raised his palms.
“We called,” he said, “I left you a message.”
“You called twenty minutes ago,” Dylan snapped. “I’ve been calling every half hour since four thirty. Did someone die? Were you chasing down the killer? Did God Almighty come down from Heaven to help you out on this case? Because those are the only acceptable answers for your blatant insubordination. I should take both of you off this case right now.”
He pointed to the conference room.
“Get in there.”
Angry threats were lost on Avery. Dylan’s fury was background noise that she could easily filter out. She’d learned the skill long ago, back in Ohio, when she had to listen to her father scream and yell at her mother almost nightly. Back then, she’d held her ears tight and sang songs and dreamed about the day she would finally be free. Now, there were more important matters to hold her attention.
The afternoon paper lay on the table.
A picture of Avery Black was on the cover, looking startled that someone had just shoved a camera in her face. The headline read “Murder in Lederman Park: Serial Killer’s Defense Attorney on the Case!” Beside the full-page image was a smaller picture of Howard Randall, the old and withered serial killer from Avery’s nightmares with Coke-bottle glasses and a smiling face. The heading over his photo said: “Trust No One: Attorney Or Police.”
“Have you seen this?” Connelly growled.
He picked up the paper and slapped it back down.
“You’re on the front page! First day on Homicide and you’re front page news —again. Do you realize how unprofessional this is? No, no,” he said at Ramirez’s expression, “don’t even try to speak right now. You both screwed up. I don’t know who you talked to this morning, but you stirred up a shitstorm. How did Harvard get wind of Cindy Jenkins’ death? There’s a memorial for her on Kappa Kappa Gamma’s website.”
“Lucky guess?” Avery said.
“Fuck you, Black! You’re off the case. You hear me!?”
Captain O’Malley eased into the room.
“Wait,” Ramirez complained. “You can’t do that. You don’t know what we’ve got.”
“I don’t care what you’ve got,” Dylan roared. “I’m not finished yet. It just gets better and better. The Mayor called an hour ago. Apparently, he used to play golf with Jenkins’ father, and he wanted to know why a has-been defense attorney – who got a serial killer released from prison – is dealing with the murder of a close friend’s daughter.”
“Calm down,” O’Malley said.
Dylan spun around, red-faced and mouth open. At the sight of his captain – who was smaller and quiet but seemed coiled and ready to explode – he eased back.
“For