Cause to Kill

“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.”

Dead silence lasted the rest of the way into Cambridge. At one point, slightly curious about Finley and their difficult past together, Avery cocked a brow and asked a question.

“Why are you always such an asshole?”

“To you?”

“Yeah, to me.”

Finley shrugged as if the answer was obvious.

“You’re a chick,” he said. “Everyone knows chicks don’t make good cops. Heard you were a lesbian too. You like to bang serial killers, right? Crazy shit. You’re a crazy chick, Black. Besides, you always look like you belong somewhere else. So I say to myself: why doesn’t she go work somewhere else if she don’t like it here? That’s all. Busting your balls. Gotta fight back if you want respect,” he said and punched the air. “Pop, pop, pop.”

Avery began to wonder if he was slightly special.

* * *

“Can I help you with something?”

Winston Graves looked just like he’d been portrayed by the sorority girls: cocky, aloof, tall, dark, and athletic. He had dreamy green eyes and a toned, tan body. Although not a perfect match to the man Avery had seen in the surveillance videos, she tried to imagine him in disguise and slumped over to make him seem shorter.

On the porch of his first-floor apartment house, he wore white and red basketball shorts, flip-flops, and a tank-top. Books were in his hand. He glanced over at Finley, who stood further away on the sidewalk and glared at Winston like a pit bull ready to strike.

‘My name is Avery Black,” she said and flashed her badge. “I’m with Homicide. I’d just like to ask you a few questions about Cindy Jenkins.”

“It’s about time,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I called the cops on Sunday. This is the first time anyone thought it might be important enough to talk to me? Huh,” he fake laughed, “I’m touched.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Avery said. “Did you have anything to add to the case? Is that why you wanted the police to call you back?”

“No,” he said, “I’m just forever amazed at the stupidity of our public servants.”

Avery winced.

“Ouch,” Finley said. “You better mind your smart-ass tongue, Harvard boy, or I’ll bring in your clean ass for Obstruction.”

Winston looked over at Finley, haughty at first; but then when he caught a good look at his raging eyes, he seemed to show the slightest bit of self-doubt and humility.

“What do you want?” Winston demanded.

“You can start by telling me where you were Saturday night,” Avery said.

Winston laughed.

“Are you serious?” he said. “I’m a suspect now? This just gets better and better.”

A powerful, protected air surrounded Winston, like he was untouchable, above them all, and blessed by money and birthright. He reminded Avery of all the multimillionaires she’d worked with as an attorney. During that time in her life, she probably acted just like him.

“Just going through the motions,” she said.

“I was playing poker with my friends. Everyone was at my house until about midnight. You want to check? Go right ahead. Here are some names,” and rattled off a few of his Harvard classmates.

Avery took notes.

“Thanks for that,” she said. “And, how are you?”