For a few seconds, he remained squatted by the door, not only to keep up the concerned-boyfriend charade, but to observe her features, to watch her chest rise and fall, and to wonder – as he had so often – what it would be like to kiss her, for real, and to make love. The All Spirit grumbled from his heavenly position, and the killer, with a sigh, closed the passenger side door, took his place by the steering wheel, and drove away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On Wednesday morning, bright and early, Avery entered the office to check her messages and see if any new leads had come in. The disturbing interview with George had only confirmed one thing: he was crazy. Could he be the killer? Sure, Avery had begun to suspect, but there were still other avenues she needed to pursue.
One last suspect remained: Cindy Jenkins’ boyfriend, Winston Graves. Graves was a Harvard fencing champion from an elite family. His father owned a number of supermarket chains and his mother was a regular on QVC. By all accounts, he was a dedicated student and athlete who would never have to work a day in his life, but he still received top grades and had aspirations of representing his country in the Olympics.
Slim, she thought, but worth checking out.
“Hey, Black,” the captain called, “come on in here.”
Finley Stalls sat before the captain’s desk, like a thief about to be caught red-handed. Despite their brief moment of camaraderie the day before, Avery wanted nothing to do with him. A beat cop usually assigned to whatever homicide squad division was in need, he was, she believed, lazy, mean, untrustworthy, and he had an accent so thick and fast it was nearly impossible to understand what he was saying half the time.
“What’s up, Cap?”
O’Malley wore a navy blue long sleeve shirt and tan slacks. Stubble lined his face and he appeared to have gotten little sleep.
“Looks like Thompson kicked down the right doors,” he said. “We received a call this morning from Shelly Fine, mother of our assumed perp. Looks like she lent him some money to rent out a cabin on Quincy Bay for the entire month. Here’s the address,” he said and handed her a slip of paper. “That might be our spot. Get down there now. If this is it, I’ll meet with the chief this afternoon to schedule the news conference.”
Avery checked the address.
Southwest, she thought, on the water. Far from the abduction site or car routes. Intel from Jones had the killer driving in the opposite direction after the alleyway in Cambridge. And Thompson had the car going north.
“Sure,” she said, “I’ll head there this afternoon.”
“What are you? Drunk?” he snapped back. “I just handed you the potential address of our killer, and you tell me you’ll wait until this afternoon?”
“Thompson and Jones spent most of the day yesterday going over car routes. They had the minivan heading north from the park and west from the alley. Not once did it veer south. I’m not saying Fine isn’t our killer. I just think.”
“Listen, Black. You can think all you want. You want to follow-up on other leads? You go right ahead. After you search this cabin. You hear me? As far as I’m concerned, this case is over. I want it tied up with a pretty ribbon on top. You better make me look good for the chief.”
“Sure,” she said, “no problem.”
“That ‘sure’ sounds a lot like ‘I’ll do what I want,’” O’Malley said. “Look, Avery,” he said and settled down, “I know you’re smart. That’s why you were promoted, yeah? And I know you’ve got great instincts. But what I need now is closure. If I’m wrong? Great. Rub it in my face all you want. But for now? We’ve got the best lead so far and I expect you to follow it.”
“Understood,” she said.
“Good,” he replied, “now take your new partner and get out of here.”
“Finley?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You got a problem with that?”
“Seriously?”
“What?” the captain challenged. “You think I’m giving you a good cop? Your first partner was killed. Your second one is in the hospital. Finley is perfect. Solves all my problems. If he does good? Great. If he gets killed? Not a problem. I can at least tell the chief I finally got rid of some dead weight around here.”
“I’m right here!” Finley yelled.
O’Malley pointed at him.
“Don’t you disappoint me,” he snapped. “I’m tired of it, you hear me, Fin? You prove yourself on this case and maybe I’ll rethink my opinion about your dedication as an officer. For now, you’re just a racist cop that gets moved around from department to department because no one wants to fire you. Is that what you want? You like that title? Good. No more jerking around. You do what she says and clean up your act. Understand?”
“What crawled up his ass?” Finley snapped when they’d left. The words were spoken extremely fast, and with such a heavy accent that Avery thought it sounded like “Whacawlup-is-ass” and she had to take a minute to figure it out.
She was at least a head taller than Finley and seemed like a supermodel compared to him with his frog-like lips, chubby cheeks, large eyes, and short, stout frame.
Barely a word was spoken until the reached the car.
The white BMW seemed to offend Finley.
“Whoa!” he shouted. “I’m not getting in that thing.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a girly car.”
Avery hopped inside.
“Suit yourself.”
Finley – completely out of his element in his blue patrol uniform standing next to a white convertible BMW – appeared as dejected as a kitten in a rainstorm.
“Hey, Fin,” a distant cop shouted. “Nice ride.”
“Ah, man,” Finley moaned.
“It’s called karma,” Avery said when Finley begrudgingly hopped in and closed the door. “What comes around goes around.”
She headed out of the lot and turned west.
“Hey,” he said, “where you going? Quincy Bay is in the other direction.”
“We’ll get there,” she said.
“Now wait a minute,” Finley complained. “I was in that office too. Cap said we go to Quincy Bay. No exceptions.”
“He also said you need to listen to me.”
“No way. No way,” Finley shouted. “You can’t screw this up for me, Black. Turn the car around. This is my last shot. Captain hates me. We gotta do what he says.”
His dropped consonants and verbal speed made Avery shake.
“Do you ever listen to yourself?” she asked. “I mean, do you ever record yourself and then go back and try to understand what you said?”
Finley looked lost.
“Forget it,” she motioned.
“Black, I’m serious,” he pushed.
“Have you ever encountered a serial killer?” she asked.
“No. Yes. Well, maybe.” Finley thought.
“There’s something about them,” Avery said, “something different from other people. I didn’t know that until I represented one as a lawyer and thought he was innocent. After it turned out that I was wrong, I started to see things differently. His house, what he collected. On the outside, they looked like normal things, but in hindsight, they were clues. A shadow veiled everything,” she remembered, “a shadow that longed to be lifted.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Finley whined.
Avery breathed out a heavy sigh.
“George Fine might be our killer,” she said. “He stalked girls and he attacked a cop. But what I saw around him, it doesn’t add up. Points to something different, like a crazy kid who’s stuck in his own head. There’s no solid proof of anything else, which makes me think the house is a getaway, some place he goes to try and get out of his own head. I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong. We’ll get to the house. I promise. Just give me an hour.”
Finley shook his head.
“Shit, man, I’m fucked.”
“Not yet,” she said. “Just a brief detour to Harvard to interview one final suspect and then it’s on to Quincy Bay.”