Blake Pierce - Cause to Run

Jones, a lean, older Jamaican, leaned forward with incredible interest.

“How you take Desoto?” he wondered. “Seriously. No gym shit. I be in the gym too and look at me. I barely gain a pound.”

“I got lucky,” Avery said.

“Yeah, but, how ?” he truly wanted to know.

“Jujitsu,” she said. “I used to be a runner, back when I was in law, but after that whole scandal, jogging around the city wasn’t really my thing anymore. I enrolled in a jujitsu class and spent hours there every day. I think I was trying to purge my soul or something. I liked it. A lot. So much so that the instructor gave me keys to the gym and said I could go whenever I wanted.”

“Fuckin’ jujitsu ,” Finley said like it was a bad word. “I don’t need no karate. I just call my crew and they go pop-pop-pop !” he cried and pretended to fire a machine gun. “They’ll blow everybody away!”

A round of shots were ordered to commemorate the event.

Avery played pool, threw darts, and by ten o’clock, she was hammered. This was the first time she’d ever actually hung out with her squad, and it gave her a true sense of community. In a rare, extremely vulnerable moment, she put her arm around the much shorter Finley at the pool table. “You’re all right by me,” she said.

Finley, seemingly bedazzled by her touch and the fact that a tall blond goddess stood next to him, was momentarily speechless.

Ramirez remained slumped over at the bar and sitting alone, where he’d been all night. A walk over nearly landed Avery face down on the floor. She put her arm around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.

“Does that feel better?” she asked.

“That hurt.”

“Aw,” she cooed. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll make it better.”

“Nah,” he mumbled.

“What’s wrong?”

Ramirez was distraught when he turned around.

“ You ,” he said. “You’re incredible at everything you do. What am I? I feel like I’m your sidekick sometimes. You know? Until you came along, I thought I was a great cop, but whenever we’re together I just see my flaws. This morning – who else could have stopped that guy from shooting that cop? At the dock, who else could have seen what you saw? Who else could have gotten Desoto to let you into his crib and then beaten Desoto? You’re just so good, Avery, it makes me question my own value.”

“Come on,” Avery said and pushed her forehead into his. “You’re a great cop. You saved my life. Again . Desoto would have cracked my neck in two.”

“Anyone could have done that,” he said and wiggled away.

“You’re the best-dressed cop I know,” she offered, “ and the most enthusiastic cop, and you always make me smile with your positive attitude.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she pushed. “I get into my head too much. I could stay there for weeks. You force me out of my shell and make me feel like a woman.”

She kissed him on the lips.

Ramirez lowered his head.

“Thanks for that,” he said. “Really. Thanks. That means a lot. I’m OK. Just give me a minute, OK? Let me finish my drink and think about some things.”

“Sure,” she said.

The bar was even more packed than when they’d first arrived. Avery scanned the crowd. Thompson and Jones had left. Finley was playing pool. There were a couple of other officers she recognized from their office, but no one she particularly wanted to meet. Two well-dressed men waved her down and pointed at drinks. She shook her head.

Images flashed through her mind: Desoto’s hands around her neck, and the woman on the boat with her eerie shadow and star.

Avery ordered another drink and found a quiet table near a back corner. To anyone watching, she knew she must have looked crazy: a lone woman with a beaten-up face, hands on the table around a drink, and eyes focused squarely at nothing while she inwardly combed through the events of the day to find connections.

Desoto, dead end.

Parents, dead end.

Friends? Avery realized she needed to follow up with them at some point, probably sooner rather than later.

Why did the killer draw a star? she wondered.

She thought about the apartment where the murder had taken place, the books, the clothing in a hamper, and the missing rug. He’s big, she thought, and strong, and he’s definitely got a chip on his shoulder. Cameras were disabled, which means he’s also stealthy. Military training? Maybe.

She checked off another box.

Definitely personal, she mulled. Go back in Venemeer’s past. Find out who else worked at the shop, or dated her in school. Compile a list. After you have your list, maybe talk with the parents again so they can verify.

Pieces began to form, pieces to a puzzle she had yet to complete.

Ramirez stood right in front of her, watching.

“Hey,” Avery said and covered her face in embarrassment.

“Look at you.” He smiled back. “What are you doing?”

A blush painted her cheeks.

“This is how I work,” she said.

He sat down next to her.

“How?” he asked. “Tell me.”

“I just…go through it in my mind,” she said. “All the facts. All the pieces. Try to mentally look for connections. I create a checklist of leads to pursue so we don’t let anything fall through the cracks. I have to be thorough.”

“Why?” he asked. “Why are you so good at this?”

The image of her father came to her, shotgun in hand, the muzzle pointed at her face. “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!”

Escape , she thought.

That was all Avery had wanted for most of her life: to escape from her past. But escape meant she had to have a plan, and plans always had a way of going awry.

“It was the only way out,” she said.

“Out? Of what?”

Avery faced him, and shared a piece of information she hadn’t said aloud in years.

“I was an orphan. Did you know that?”

Ramirez sat back in awe.

“No!” he cried. “I would have never pegged you as an orphan. I’m a really bad cop.”

“Don’t think that.” She smiled and held his hand.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I was a foster kid for about six years. I went through a lot of homes, was picked up by a few families. House mothers. That’s what they’re called. They get paid to take in young children with nowhere else to go. Everybody’s happy. The state gets to wipe their hands clean of wayward children. Crappy people get to have slaves.”

“Avery. I am so sorry.”

“There was this one house mother – ”

A newspaper was slapped down on the table.

Dylan Connelly stood above them.

“You seen this?” he said. “It’s the late edition. All over the Internet. A copy of the letter was mailed to A7. O’Malley is waiting on us. Wants the entire team in to go over what you’ve discovered so far. It’s from your killer.”

The cover of the paper read: Murder at Marina , and showed a shot of the victim on the bow of a yacht docked to a pier. Lines from the article stood out: “Saliva swab on the letter matches that of the slain woman,” and “Possible bookstore connection.” Avery was mentioned twice by name: once as an investigator from the A1 brought in to help with the case, and once as a possible love interest of captured serial killer Howard Randall.

A smaller caption read: Letter from the Murderer! The picture displayed a zoom-in of words scrawled on paper.

Avery flipped to the page.

The letter was a full side. The killer’s note was written like a poem:

Avery set it down, her entire body trembling.