Cause to Kill

“I needed the perspective.”

“Then you call me, or Connelly, or anyone else connected to this case. You don’t go to a federal prison to hunt down an old flame. I mean, Jesus. Don’t you even read the papers? They made it look like this entire department is a bunch of morons, and that the only leads we could get had to come from a former flame. It’s bad, Avery, real bad.”

“Captain, I’m – ”

“Three,” he said and held up three fingers, “you’ve got dissention in your ranks. Thompson and Jones are complaining about the surveillance gig.”

“They wasted an entire day yesterday!”

O’Malley held up a hand.

“Connelly won’t even talk to you – ”

“That’s not my fault!”

“I don’t know what you did to Finley,” he said, shocked, “but he’s actually been working his ass off and he’s genuinely upset about all this.”

Suddenly, Avery began to realize where the conversation was headed.

“Upset about all what?” she said.

“Maybe I promoted you too soon,” O’Malley mumbled to himself.

“Captain, wait.”

He shook his head and made a face.

“No more, Avery, please. No more. OK? I’ve got the chief barking up my ass. The mayor is pissed. I’ve got complaints coming in from who-the-fuck-knows, and they’re all about you. But the worst of it all, seriously,” he said with true sorrow in his eyes. “The worst thing is, this isn’t about you at all, or any of this petty bullshit. We’ve got three dead girls in under a week. Three dead, Avery. And no leads. And a dead trail. Am I right?”

Avery flashed on the killer’s twirl and bow in the parking lot camera.

“I’m going to find him,” she said, “I swear it.”

“Not on my watch,” O’Malley replied. “You’re off the case. Effective immediately. Connelly is taking over.”

“Captain – ”

“Not a word, Black. Not a word because I’m calm right now, right? I’m calm because this is upsetting to me too, but if you push me I’m going to get really angry because of all the pressure I’m under over this case. You’re off. I want all your research on Connelly’s desk in the next hour. Any information from the latest crime scene in Belmont. Where are we on that? Where’s the body? No, I don’t want you to tell me now. I want it all written down, along with any leads you’re pursuing, anything. Leave nothing out. Understood? Then you’re free to go. Take the rest of the day off. Come back on Monday and we’ll talk about what happens next. I need the weekend to think it over.”

“I’m off the case,” she said.

“You’re off.”

“For good?”

“For good.” He nodded.

“Am I still on homicide?”

O’Malley wouldn’t answer.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Avery had nowhere to go. Her favorite place, the shooting range, was for cops, and she no longer felt like a cop. Her house was dark and empty, and she knew that if she went home, she would simply crawl into bed and remain there for days.

A local pub, right around the corner from her house, was open.

She started the morning off right.

“Scotch,” she said, “the good stuff.”

“We have a lot of good stuff,” the bartender replied.

Avery didn’t recognize him. She’d only ever visited the bar at night. Not any longer, she thought with reckless abandon. I’m a day drinker now.

“Lagavulin!” she demanded and pounded the bar.

There were only a couple of other people in the bar at that hour, all locals, two old men that looked like they drank for a living.

“Another!” Avery called.

After four shots, she was wasted.

Strangely, the sensation reminded her of the past. After Howard Randall had killed again after his release through Avery’s genius defense, she’d gone on a bender for weeks. All she remembered from that time were lonely nights in her dark room, and hangovers, and the constant media coverage that seemed to run in a loop.

She stared down at herself, at her hand and clothes and the people in the bar.

Look how far you’ve fallen, she thought. Not even a cop anymore.

Nothing.

Her father’s face came to mind, laughing: “You think you’re so special,” he’d once told her with a gun pointed at her temple. “You ain’t special. I made you, and I can take you.”

Avery stumbled home.

Images of the killer merged with car routes and her father and Howard Randall, and the last thing she remembered before she blacked out was her own sobs.

* * *

Avery spent the rest of the day in bed, the blinds closed. Randomly throughout the afternoon and night, she got up to hydrate or down a beer or stuff her face with leftovers in the refrigerator before she headed back to her room and crashed.

At ten o’clock on Saturday morning, the phone rang.

The caller ID read Rose.

Avery picked up, groggy and still consumed with sleep.

“Hey.”