Cause to Kill

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?”