Sunday felt like a Monday for Avery.
She was up and energized at seven. Strangely enough, she slept like a baby the moment she'd arrived home, probably the best night's sleep she'd had in months.
She threw on a black pantsuit and white button-down. As always, she wore black Skechers sneakers on her feet. The days of high-heel Manolo Blahniks were long gone. After breakfast and a cup of coffee, she stood in her foyer and stared at herself.
Go get him, she said.
A twinge of doubt invaded her thoughts. There had been so many close calls already, so many leads that had turned up dead. No, she thought. This is the one. It has to be.
On the way to her car, she surveyed the landscape of her life as a cop: traffic duty, petty crimes, domestic disputes, gang warfare, and now this, her biggest case, a homicide detective on the trail of a serial killer. This is what you've been working toward for the last three years, she told herself: a chance to make amends for the past, to close the Howard Randall chapter for good and to step out of the shadows of miserable regret, and live.
Weekend morning shifts at the A1 changed at eight. Most of the office was empty from the transition, with a large majority of the force either on the streets or on their way into work. Connelly was already there, along with the chief and Thompson.
The chief was in jeans and a red BPD T-shirt, the most casual Avery had ever seen him. On the phone, he waved her into his office with the rest of the group.
"Hold on," O'Malley said into the line, "I've got Black here. Let me put you on speaker and we can get this handled right now."
A gravelly voice emanated through the room.
"Hello? Can everyone hear me?"
O'Malley mouthed "The mayor."
"We're here," he said.
"Detective Black," the mayor said as if the words were distasteful in his mouth, "I hear you've been relentless on this case, even after you were dismissed. How sure are you about Devante? You know Miles Standish is a good friend of mine."
O'Malley mouthed "The owner."
"I highly doubt that Mr. Standish has anything to do with this," Avery said. "We believe the killer is someone within his offices, most likely a human resources manager or liaison that would have met with these girls, read their resumes, and then passed them on to the proper departments."
"I asked how sure you are about Devante, Ms. Black. Are you positive this is the best lead? I have a very difficult call to make."
"Three girls are dead," she said. "Each one of them is from different schools, and yet they all had jobs lined up at Devante. It's the only connection that makes sense. I'm one hundred percent sure."
"Good," the mayor said. "Mike," he added, "I'll call Miles now. Expect to hear from him soon. If he doesn't cooperate, get your warrant and do what you have to do. I want this case wrapped up by Monday."
"Yes sir," O'Malley said.
When the mayor hung-up, O'Malley addressed the group.
"OK," he said, "here's how we'll do this. Avery, you're lead. That shit you pulled the other day was way out of line, but since you cracked this thing, you should see it through. We'll discuss your future later on. Connelly is your supervisor. You'll have Thompson and whomever else we can pull together once we have all the information. Thompson." he said and paused for a minute to find the right words, "I used to think you were this freakish Irish giant that would come into this office and make things happen. Sadly, none of that happened In fact, I think you're lazier than Finley. Scratch that," he instantly corrected, "I was wrong about Finley. He's been working his ass off. Everyone makes mistakes. You, however, had better amaze me today. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," Thompson swore.
Fifteen minutes later, the call they'd been waiting for arrived. O'Malley instantly touched speakerphone.
"O'Malley here," he said.
A perky young voice filled the room.
"Hi there!" she said. "This is Laura Hunt. I'm the personal assistant to Mr. Miles Standish. I was told to call and provide whatever information you might need about Devante."
O'Malley waved at Black.
"You're on," he said.
"This is Avery Black," she said. "I'm not sure if you've been informed, but we have a serial killer on the loose with a possible connection to the Devante Accounting Firm."
"Yes, Ms. Black, I've been fully briefed."
"What we need is a name, someone that would have met with each of these college students and then either offered them jobs, or rerouted them to another department within the company where they were hired."
"OK," she said. "Can I ask which Devante firm we're talking about?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, we have offices in Boston, Chicago, and San Antonio."
"The Boston office."
"OK, hold on one second. Here it is. Timothy McGonagle is the president of Human Resources for the Boston office. I don't think he deals directly with college recruiting, but you can either talk to him or someone on his staff," and she offered his cell phone number, home number, and home address.
"How many people does McGonagle have under him?" Avery asked.
"There are twenty-eight other human resources workers."
"If I have problems, can I call you directly?"
"Absolutely," she said and gave Avery her number. "Mr. Standish wants to help in any way possible. He simply asks that you try and keep the Devante name out of the papers if possible. We wouldn't want people to associate any crimes with our accounting firm."
"Understood," Avery said.
The phone call ended shortly after and O'Malley surveyed the group.
Avery wanted to see Timothy McGonagle for herself, up close and personal. Even if he wasn't the person directly responsible for the crimes, it was becoming almost certain that he hired a killer, or he hired someone that had hired a killer. A quick background check revealed nothing on McGonagle: not even a parking ticket.
"All right," he said, "get to it. I have a sweet sixteen to attend."
* * *
McGonagle wasn't far from the A1. He lived in the affluent neighborhood of Beacon Hill just north of the offices, close to Lederman Park. Connelly stayed behind to oversee two gang-related squads and to try and pull together a team for Avery if needed.
Thompson was assigned as her partner for the day. He kept his mouth shut for most of the ride and sat awkwardly in Avery's passenger seat, his body scrunched in tight.
"Where you from?" Avery casually asked.
"Boston," he mumbled.
"Where in Boston?"
"All over."
"What made you want to be a cop?"
A frown appeared on his albino-like face, and his fat lips curled in a sneer.
"What is this? Twenty questions?" he barked.
Avery parked on Pinckney Street.
McGonagle lived in a large, brick-faced home with white shutters and a red door sunken into an outdoor foyer space. Thompson remained on the edge of the entrance and looked like he wanted to be anywhere but around Avery Black. His size and strange appearance, however, were a magnet for people that walked by; even if they were on the other side of the street, they crossed and stared closely into his face as they passed.
The bell rang and was quickly answered.
"Hello?" someone called.
Tim McGonagle was younger than Avery had expected, maybe in his mid-thirties, with black hair and bright green eyes that seemed to always be calculating figures. He was dressed in gray slacks and a pink button-down shirt and a green tie.
Five eight or five nine, she thought. Too tall. The height doesn't match up.
"Can I help you with something?" he asked.
"Avery Black," she said, "Boston Homicide."
"Yes, I see. A celebrity officer in person." He smiled.
He noticed Thompson before he turned back to Avery.
"What can I do for you?"
"Have you been following the serial killer case?" Avery asked.
"I have," he said.
"Are you aware that three of the victims were recently hired by your firm?"
"No," he said, "my god, that's awful."
'What exactly do you do at Devante?"
He waved inside.
"Would you like to sit down?"
"No, thank you."
A female voice called out from somewhere deep in the home.
"Timmy? Who is it?"
"Hold on one second, Peg," he called. "I'm the president of the Devante Human Resources Department for the Boston Division," he said to Avery. "My main responsibilities are to hire and manage the staff. I oversee problems within the company, any major employee/employer disputes, things of that nature. The only resumes I see are for high-level staff we may need, such as a CEO position or a head auditor."
"Who recruits for the colleges?"
"One of my employees. His name is Gentry Villasco, but honestly, I can't imagine him doing anything like this. He's an administrative director. He heads up a team of four. They oversee colleges, college resumes, and they do scouting on campuses."
"If a college student wanted a position at your firm, they'd have to go through him?"
"That's right. His team might sift through applicants and weed out the best resumes, but eventually they'd go to him. If Gentry liked what he saw, he would then pass them onto the appropriate department where a position had opened."
"Can you tell me anything about him? Is he single? Married? What does he like to do on weekends? Does he have friends?"
Timothy laughed.
"Gentry is definitely not a killer," he said. "He's a loner, that's for sure, a little older than I am. Maybe in his fifties? Has a house out in West Somerville. Commutes to work. He's a people-person but he keeps to himself, if you know what I mean? He's worked at Devante longer than I have, about fifteen years."
Avery gave him the hard stare.
"Are you sure you have no knowledge of the three victims in question? Let me tell you their names again, in case you forgot: Cindy Jenkins, Tabitha Mitchell, and the last one hasn't hit the papers yet. Molly Green."
"I've never heard of any of them," he said and then instantly corrected himself. "Well, I've heard of the first two, but not within the company. I read the papers. I'm familiar with the case," and he stood taller and held her gaze.
"Are you going to be home all day?" Avery asked.
"Well, my family and I are planning on going to church in a little while. We're just having breakfast with the kids."
He seemed both honest and genuinely disturbed by the connection to Devante. A family man, Avery thought. She stepped back and tried to imagine a killer with a wife and family.
"Here's my card," she said. "Please call me if you can think of anything else."
"Of course," he said. "I'm sorry to hear about all this."
Thompson was leaning on the brick facade with his foot kicked up, oblivious to everything except the sky.
Avery slapped him in the chest as she walked past.
"Hey!" he complained.
"Next time you want to act like a doorstop," she said, "go back to the office."
