“What have we got?” he said.
Somerville police began to surround the house and enter.
The entire scene unfolded like a dream. Avery could barely see Connelly or the others. She was miles away in her own mind. The puzzle wasn’t complete, and yet she had no real facts to base it on except for instinct and Gentry Villasco’s last words. I did it for family. Who are we to judge? Everyone deserves to exist.
Could Gentry have abducted all those women? Avery wondered. He seemed sweet, almost hapless, like he was roped into something he couldn’t control.
“Avery. Are you all right? Talk to me,” Connelly insisted.
“He’s inside,” she said, “Gentry Villasco. Dead. Shot himself. Said something about doing it for family. Thompson is looking for a paper trail that might lead to the minivan or another home.”
“Is this our guy? Avery?”
Everyone deserves to exist.
“I have to make a call,” she said.
Avery walked out into the street and dialed Tim McGonagle. His phone went directly to voicemail. She left a message.
“Mr. McGonagle,” she said, “this is Avery Black. I need to know if Gentry Villasco has any family that might work with you in the office, a cousin or nephew – anyone. This is extremely important. Please call me back as soon as you can.”
The list she’d taken earlier, of all the people that worked under Villasco, was unfolded and scanned. A circle surrounded the name Edwin Pesh.
You can’t just leave a crime scene, she told herself. This is your crime scene. Connelly would never forgive you. O’Malley would never forgive you. You have to follow through. Take statements, complete a more thorough search of the house.
Patience had never been one of Avery’s strong suits. Although her outwardly calm and sarcastic demeanor had – over the years – lulled a lot of people into a false sense of security, inside she was really a machine that refused to stop.
If Villasco is your killer, he’s dead now, she reasoned. There’s nothing more you can do. The house is being watched and searched.
You can’t leave, she mentally cried.
Avery turned back to the house. There was no sign of Thompson or Connelly. A few of the Somerville police talked amongst themselves. Children had begun to creep up to the scene from further down the street, as well as parents in nearby homes.
Go, she thought and made a beeline to her car.
No one stopped her.
The Watertown address of Edwin Pesh was thirty minutes away from the Somerville house of Villasco. Just a short trip, she told herself. If you don’t see anything unusual, you turn around and come back. Say you went for a coffee run, or you were sick.
Avery took her time. She slowed down at stop signs and kept her speed under the limit. There’s no need to rush, she thought.
About halfway into her ride, she imagined Rose, distressed from their lunch and in a miserable mood all weekend long.
You have to make things right with her, she mulled. No matter what happens here she’s your daughter, and not that crying, pooping, and peeing lump anymore. She’s a woman now, a real person, and she needs a mother.
She dialed her number.
Voicemail picked up.
“OK, I’m an idiot,” Avery said. “Rose, this is your mom. God, I don’t even deserve to call myself that, do I? I know I haven’t been there for you. I’ve probably never been there for you the way you needed. I was a terrible mother. That’s true, I know it. But I was young, and stupid, and having a child is hard. That’s not an excuse,” she immediately corrected. “This is all on me. Jack was great, he really was great, especially with you. Give me another chance, Rose. I hate what’s happened to us. Please. One more chance. I promise to make amends for the past. You might not accept me as a mother anymore, but I’d like to at least try to be.”
Voicemail cut her off.
“Shit,” Avery whispered.
She was about to call back when she entered Watertown. The area wasn’t as familiar to her as Cambridge or Boston. At a stoplight, she plugged in the address for Edwin Pesh and watched the red dot blip on her screen.
Five minutes away.
Two.
The house of Edwin Pesh was in a dismal state. Grey paint was chipped off the wood-panel exterior. A blue shutter hung from a single latch, and the roof was piled with leaves and branches. Unlike any other house on the block, trees enveloped the entire property in a gloomy shade. The lawn hadn’t been cut in months, and any flowers were limp or dead.
A dark blue minivan sat in the driveway.
This is it, she thought. This is his house.
Everything came back to her: her conversations with Randall, the car routes from Lederman Park and Cambridge, the abduction of Cindy Jenkins, and the killer, as he bowed and twirled and entered his vehicle to drive away.
She kept the car at a slow roll and moved right up the street. At the intersection, she turned and parked. An extra clip was shoved in her back pocket. A powerful, portable flashlight was attached to her belt. The walkie-talkie was left in the car seat.
Don’t go in there alone, she thought. Call for backup.
What if he has another victim? she wondered. Right now, you have the element of surprise. Don’t make a scene. Go in alone. Silent. Quick.
You need help! she fought.
For a second, she thought about calling Connelly or Thompson, or even Finley. No, she argued, not them. Why? she demanded. You don’t trust Connelly or Thompson, and Finley is a loose cannon.
A voice came into her head, one of the speakers at her police academy graduation, a woman who had said, “Everyone needs help. You’re not alone as a police officer. You’re part of a team. Rely on them.”
For years, she’d been on her own. No one had been her friend after her world had collapsed. During her early years on the force, nearly everyone had been an enemy. Strangely, one person stood out in recent memory: Ramirez. From the start, he’d been honest with her, and appreciative, and a true partner in every sense of the word. He’s hurt, she thought. Out of commission. Still.
She dialed his number.
Ramirez picked up on the first ring.
“Where you been, Black?” he said. “Heard O’Malley took you off the case. What the hell happened?”
“Where are you?” she said.
“I’m at home. Hospital let me go. I’m not supposed to do any strenuous lifting for a while but I’m bored out of my mind. Please tell me you’re in my hood.”
“I found the killer,” she said. “His name is Edwin Pesh. He lives in Watertown. I’m right outside his house.”
“Whoa.”
“How soon can you get here?”
“Did you call it in?”
“I called you,” she said.
“All right,” he muttered and thought it through. “All right.”
“Take down this address,” she said and gave him the details.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he replied, “maybe sooner if I blow all the lights. Don’t go in there without me, understand?”
She hung up.
As if she were just another stroller on a balmy Sunday afternoon, Avery shut her car door and headed down the street.
Her heart was beating fast.
At the house, she crouched low and ran up the drive.
She placed a hand on the back of the minivan and stared at the side of the house. No lights were on. The interior was slightly visible through the first and second floor windows. Basement windows had been painted black.
Her fingers ran over the license plate and instantly felt an extremely sticky substance around the edges. Minivan, she thought. Fake license, taped on. Family. Villasco had talked about. The dark house loomed above. In one of the windows, she spotted a gray cat.