Avery parked at an empty spot on the street between police cruisers and braced herself as she looked over at the A7 police department headquarters on Paris Street in East Boston. Outside the station was a media circus. A news conference had been called to discuss the case and a number of television vans and cameras and reporters barred the way, despite numerous officers trying to get them to move.
"Your public awaits," Ramirez noted.
Ramirez seemed to want to be interviewed. His head was lifted high and he smiled at every reporter that turned his way. To his disappointment, none of them approached. Avery had her head down and walked as fast as possible to push her way into the station. She hated crowds. At one time in her life, when she was a lawyer, she'd loved when people knew her by name and flocked to her trials, but ever since she herself had been figuratively put on trial by the press, she'd learned to despise their attention.
Instantly, the reporters converged.
"Avery Black," one of them said with a mic in her face. "Can you please tell us anything about the woman murdered at the marina today?"
"Why are you on the case, Detective Black?" yelled another. "This is the A7. Were you transferred to this department?"
"How do you feel about the mayor's new Stop Crime campaign?"
"Are you and Howard Randall still an item?"
Howard Randall, she thought. Despite an overwhelming desire to cut all ties with Randall, Avery hadn't been able to get him out of her mind Every day since her last meeting with Randall, he'd found some way to creep into her thoughts. Sometimes, a simple smell or an image was all she needed to hear his words: "Does it bring back something from your childhood, Avery? What? Tell me…" Other times, while working on different cases, she tried to think like Randall would think to uncover the solution.
"Out of the way!" Ramirez yelled. "Come on! Make room. Let's go."
He put a hand on her back and led her into the station.
The A7 headquarters, a large brick and stone building, had recently received a major interior overhaul. Gone were the metal desks and typically sullen feel of a state-operated organization. In its place were sleek silver tables, colored chairs, and an open area for booking that looked more like the entrance to a playland.
Like the A1-only more modern-the conference room was encased in glass so that people could look out on the floor. A large, oval mahogany table was complete with microphones for each seat and a huge flat-screen TV for conferencing.
O'Malley was already seated at the table beside Holt. On either side of them were Detective Simms and his partner, and two people Avery guessed were the forensics specialist and the coroner. Two seats remained open at the bottom of the table near the entrance.
"Sit down," O'Malley waved. "Thanks for coming. Don't worry. I'm not going to be on your backs the entire time," he said to everyone, with special emphasis to Avery and Ramirez. "I just want to make sure we're all on the same page."
"You're always welcome here," Holt said with genuine affection toward O'Malley.
"Thanks, Will. Take it away."
Holt indicated his officer.
"Simms?" he said.
"All right," Simms said, "I guess I'm on. Why don't we start with forensics, then get the coroner's report, and then I'll tell you about the rest of our day," he said with emphasis to Captain Holt before he turned to the forensics specialist. "Sound good, Sammy?"
A lean Indian man was the head of their forensics team. He wore a suit and tie and gave a big thumbs-up when his name was mentioned.
"Yes sir, Mark," he practically gushed. "As we discussed, we have very little to go on. The apartment was clean. No blood, no sign of a struggle. The cameras were all disabled with a clear epoxy that you can buy at any hardware store. We found remnants of black glove fibers, but again, they offered no solid leads."
Detective Simms kept jerking his chin toward Avery. Sammy had trouble understanding who was in authority. He kept looking at Simms and Holt and everyone else. Eventually, he caught on and began to address Avery and Ramirez.
"We do, however, have something from the shipyard," Sammy said. "Obviously, the killer disabled the cameras there, in much the same way as the apartment. To get to the shipyard unnoticed would mean he had to work between eleven p.m., which is when the last worker left the marina, and six in the morning, when the first shifts came on. We found matching shoe prints in the shipyard and on the boat before the other police officers were on the scene. The foot is a ten and a half boot, of the Redwing variety. He seems to walk with a limp from a possible injury to his right leg, as the left shoe created a deeper indent than the right."
"Excellent," Simms said proudly.
"We checked into that drawn star on the bow as well," Sammy continued. "No genetic material could be found. However, we did find a black fiber within the star similar to the glove fibers in the apartment, so that was a very interesting connection, thank you for that, Detective Black." He nodded.
Avery nodded back.
Holt sniffed.
"Lastly," Sammy concluded, "we believe the body was carried to the shipyard in a rolled rug, as there were many rug fibers on the body and a missing rug from the house."
He nodded to indicate he was finished.
"Thanks, Sammy," Simms said. "Dana?"
A woman in a white lab coat, who looked like she would rather have been anywhere else but in that room, spoke next. She was middle-aged, with straight brown hair that came down to her shoulders, and a constant frown on her face.
"The victim died from a broken neck," she said. "There were bruises on her arms and legs that indicated she was hurled to the floor or against the wall. Body has probably been dead about twelve hours. There was no sign of forced entry."
She sat back with her arms folded.
Simms raised his brows and turned to Avery.
"Detective Black? Anything on the family?"
"That was a dead end," Avery said. "The victim saw her parents once a week to bring groceries and cook dinner. No boyfriend. No other close relatives in Boston. She does, however, have a close circle of friends that we'll have to speak with. The parents themselves aren't suspect. They could barely get off the couch. We would have begun researching the friends, but I wasn't sure about protocol," she said with a look to O'Malley.
"Thanks for that," Simms said. "Understood. I think after this meeting, you'll be in charge, Detective Black, but that's not my call. Let me tell you what my team discovered so far. We checked her phone records and email addresses. Nothing unusual there. Cameras in the building were disabled and no other lenses had sight on the building itself. However, we did find something at Venemeer's bookstore. It was open today. She has two full-time workers. They were unaware of the victim's death and genuinely shocked. Neither of them seemed like viable suspects, but both of them mentioned that the store has recently come under fire from a local gang known as the Chelsea Death Squad. The name comes from their main hangout on Chelsea Street. I spoke with our gang unit and learned they're a relatively new Latino gang loosely affiliated with a bunch of other cartels. Their leader is Juan Desoto."
Avery had heard of Desoto from her gang days during her rookie years. He might be a small player in a new squad, but he'd been a big-time enforcer for a number of established gangs throughout Boston for years.
Why would a mob hitman with his own squad want to kill a local bookstore owner and then deposit the body in high-profile fashion on a yacht? she wondered.
"Sounds like you've got a great lead," Holt gushed. "It's distressing that we have to hand the reins over to a department on the other side of the channel. Sadly, however, that's part of life. Isn't it, Captain O'Malley? Compromise, yes?" He smiled.
"That's right," O'Malley reluctantly answered.
Simms sat taller.
"Juan Desoto would definitely be my number one suspect. If this was my case," he stressed, "I'd try and visit with him first."
The slight jab bothered Avery.
Do I really need this? she thought. Although she was utterly intrigued by the case, the blurry boundary lines between who handled what bothered her. Do I have to follow his lead? Is he my supervisor now? Or can I do what I want?
O'Malley seemed to read her mind.
"I think we're finished here. Right, Will?" he said before speaking exclusively to Avery and Ramirez. "After this, you two are in charge unless you need to refer back to Detective Simms over information we've just covered. Copies of the files are being made for you right now. They'll be sent over to the A1. So," he sighed and stood up, "unless there are any other questions, get started. I have a department to run."
*
The tension at the A7 kept Avery on edge until they were out of the building, past the news reporters, and back in her car.
"That went well," Ramirez cheered. "You do realize what just happened in there?" he asked. "You were just handed the biggest case A7 has probably had in years, and all because you're Avery Black."
Avery wordlessly nodded.
Being in charge came with a high price tag. She was able to do things her own way, but if problems arose they were on her head alone. Besides, she had a feeling that it wasn't going to be the last time she heard from the A7. Feels like I have two bosses now, she inwardly groaned.
"What's our next move?" Ramirez asked.
"Let's clean the slate with A7 and visit Desoto. Not sure what we'll find, but if his gang was harassing a bookstore owner, I'd like to know why."
Ramirez whistled.
"How do you know where to find him?"
"Everyone knows where to find him. He owns a small coffee shop on Chelsea Street, right by the expressway and the park."
"You think he's our guy?"
"Killing is nothing new to Desoto." Avery shrugged. "Not sure if this crime scene fits his MO, but he might know something. He's a legend throughout Boston. From what I understand, he's done jobs for the blacks, Irish, Italians, Hispanics, you name it. When I was a rookie they called him the Ghost Killer. For years, no one even believed he existed. Gang Unit had him pegged for jobs as far as New York City. No one could prove a thing. He's owned that coffee shop for as long as I've heard his name."
"You ever meet him?"
"No."
"Know what he looks like?"
"Yeah," she said. "I saw a photo of him once. Light-skinned and really, really big. I think his teeth were sharpened too."
He turned to her and smiled, but beneath that smile she could sense the same panic and rush of adrenaline she was starting to feel herself. They were heading into the lion's den.
"This should be interesting," he said.
