With a pouty face, a dancing twirl, and a pucker of her lips, Avery smiled.
That’s the girl I know, she thought.
Cambridge Street only had light traffic that early in the morning. Avery stopped for coffee and a bagel, and then parked her car on the opposite side of the street from the studio, about two doors down. The wait was the most annoying part of the job, and Avery settled in for the long stretch.
Surprisingly, John Lang appeared in Avery’s rearview mirror at close to eight thirty.
He was lean and tall, not exactly a perfect body match to the killer, but it was her only lead, and there was a connection, and the way he walked reminded her of the killer: with a flair in his steps, all hips and hard feet.
When he reached the office, Lang unlocked the door.
Avery exited her car.
“Excuse me,” she called from across the street. “Can I have a word?”
Lang had an unpleasant face, thinning blond hair, and glasses. A frown wrinkled his brow as he watched Avery for a moment and then headed inside.
“Hey!” Avery yelled. “Police.”
She flashed her badge.
Surprise and worry overcame John Lang. He tentatively peeked out the windows. Across the street, two people with coffee watched Avery jog to the studio. Resigned, Lang took on an imperious air and opened the door.
“The shop is currently closed,” he said.
“I’m not here about art.”
“What can I help you with, Officer?”
“I’d like to talk about Cindy Jenkins and Tabitha Mitchell.”
A befuddled look crossed his face.
“Those names mean nothing to me.”
“Are you sure? Because both of those girls took art classes at this studio, and now they’re both dead. Maybe you’d like to revise that statement? Can I come inside?”
During a long pause, Lang peered into the studio, at his computer, and then again out toward the street.
“Yes,” he said, “but only for a minute. I’m very busy.”
The studio was cool as if an air conditioner had been timed to turn on early. Lang dropped a bag on his desk, sat in a large black swivel chair, and turned to Avery. No seat was offered for her. A couple of cushioned stools were scattered around the space. Avery stood.
“Cindy Jenkins and Tabitha Mitchell,” she said.
“I told you, I don’t know them.”
“They took classes here.”
“A lot of people take classes here. Can I get a time period?”
“Why don’t you look them up on your computer?”
He flushed red.
“Those files are routinely purged,” he said.
“Really? You don’t keep client names and addresses so you can send fliers and emails? I find that hard to believe.”
“We keep the names and addresses,” he said. “But the documents that we use when they first arrive for classes are destroyed, so I wouldn’t be able to give you a time period.”
“You’re lying,” she said.
“Am I being charged with something?” he demanded.
“Have you committed a crime?”
“Absolutely not!”
Avery wasn’t convinced. There was something about the way he said the words, and the drift of his gaze, and the computer he refused to turn on.
“How long have you worked here?” she asked.
“Five years.”
“Who hired you?”
“Wilson Kyle.”
“Does Wilson Kyle know you’re a registered sex offender?”
Shame blushed on Lang’s cheeks, and the beginning of tears. He sat taller in his chair and glared at her with malice.
“Yes,” he said, “he does.”
“Where were you on Saturday night? And on Wednesday night?”
“Home. I watch movies.”
“Can anyone vouch for that?”
On the verge of a breakdown, Lang practically shook from anger.
“How dare you,” he hissed. “What are you trying to do? I’ve made amends for my past. I went to jail and had to seek out professional help and perform community service and have a red flag waved around for the rest of my life: ‘Sex Offender.’ I’m better now,” he swore as his body relaxed and the tears began to fall. “I’m different. All I ask is that you people just leave me alone.”
He was hiding something. Avery could feel it.
“Did you kill Cindy Jenkins and Tabitha Mitchell?”
“No!”
“Show me that computer.”
A scrunched face and a shake of his head told Avery all she needed to know.
“If you won’t log on and let me look at your search history right now, I’ll be back this afternoon with a warrant for your arrest.”
“What’s going on here?” someone roared.
A large, extravagant man stood in the doorway. He had perfectly cut, flowing white hair combed back from his face and a trimmed white goatee. Small, chunky black glasses framed angry green eyes. A crimson summer sweater was twirled over a white T-shirt. He wore jeans and black Crocs.
Lang covered his face and instantly fell apart.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”
Avery flashed her badge.
“And you would be?”
“Wilson Kyle. I own this establishment.”
“My name is Avery Black. Homicide. Boston PD. I have reason to believe Mr. Lang here might be implicated in two possible homicides.”
He raised his brows in disbelief.
“John Lang?” he said. “You mean him? The man cowering before you? You think he could be responsible for murder?”
“Two girls from two different colleges,” she said and scrutinized every movement of John Lang, “positioned: one in the park and one in a cemetery.”
“I’ve read about this case,” Kyle confirmed.
A large palm went on John’s shoulder.
“John?” he asked with a sensitive tone. “Do you know anything about this?”
“I don’t know anything!” John cried. “Haven’t I been through enough?”
“How exactly have you implicated him in these crimes?”
“Those two girls both came here. He has a record. He has no alibi for the nights of the abductions and he won’t let me see what’s on that computer,” she said.
“Do you have a warrant?”
“No, but I can get one.”
Wilson Kyle lowered down with his immense presence and, with incredible patience and empathy, he tried to get John to hold his gaze.
“John,” he said, “it’s all right. The police are trying to solve a crime. What’s on the computer that you don’t want her to see? You can be honest with me.”
“I had to look!” he sobbed.
“It’s all right, John,” he said and leaned forward to whisper, “I won’t judge you.”
He rubbed John’s back, helped him up, and logged onto the computer.
“Password?” he asked.
John sniffled and rubbed his nose. A shake of his head and a soft, barely perceptible reply was whispered.
Wilson Kyle typed in his password.
“There you are, Officer Black,” he said. “Look and see. Come, John,” he added. “Let’s wait over here. It’s going to be all right. I promise. The officer just wants to confirm you’re not involved in a mass murder. You’re no murderer, are you, my boy? No, of course not, John. Of course not.”
Avery sat at the desk.
A quick search of the history revealed nothing. Art sites. Scrabble Word help and multiple artists and their works. She went through each day. On Tuesday, early in the morning, she saw a slew of pornography sites.
She looked up.
John was seated in a chair, his head down, hands in his face. Wilson Kyle stood behind him and glared at Avery like a great lord being forced to watch something unthinkable, and that fact made him angrier and angrier.
Back to the computer, Avery clicked on a few of the links. Young children appeared, naked or half naked. Ages ranged from six to twelve. Utterly disgusted by what she saw, Avery clicked on other sites to try to make some rational argument as to why she should ignore what she found. Based on his proclivity for little children, it was hard for her to imagine him as the killer.