CHAPTER EIGHT
Left alone in the conference room together, Avery and Dylan sat across from each other for a few moments in absolute silence. Neither one of them moved. His head was low. A grimace lined his face and he seemed to be mulling something over. For the first time, Avery felt some sympathy for him.
“I know what it’s like – ” she began.
Dylan stood up so fast and stiffly that his chair slid back and hit the wall.
“Don’t think this changes anything,” he said. “You and I are nothing alike.”
Although his menacing body language emanated anger and distance, his eyes said something different. Avery was sure he was on the verge of a breakdown. Something the captain had said affected him, just like it had affected her. They were both damaged, lonely. Alone.
“Look,” she offered, “I just thought.”
Dylan turned away and opened the door. His profile on the way out confirmed her fears: there were tears in his bloodshot eyes.
“Dammit,” she whispered.
Nights were the worst for Avery. She had no steady group of friends anymore, no real hobbies other than the job, and she was so tired that she couldn’t imagine doing more legwork. By herself at the large, blond table, she hung her head low and dreaded what came next.
The way out of the office was like every other day, only there was a charged feeling in the air, and many on the force were even more emboldened by her front page story.
“Hey, Black,” someone called and pointed to her cover photo. “Nice face.”
Another officer tapped on the image of Howard Randall.
“This story says you two were very close, Black. You into gerontophilia? You know what that means? It means you like to fuck old people.”
“You guys are hilarious.” She smiled and shot her fingers out like guns.
“Fuck you, Black.”
* * *
A white BMW was parked in the garage; five years old, dirty and worn. Avery had bought it at the height of her success as a defense attorney.
What were you thinking? she mused. Why would anyone buy a white car?
Success, she remembered. The white BMW had been bright and flashy, and she wanted everyone to know she was a boss. Now, it was a reminder of her failed life.
Avery’s apartment was on Bolton Street in South Boston. She owned a small two-bedroom on the second floor of a two-story building. The place was a downgrade from her former penthouse high-rise, but it was spacious and neat, with a nice terrace where she could sit and relax after a hard day’s work.
The living room was an open space with shaggy brown carpeting. The kitchen was to the right of the front door, and separated from the rest of the room by two large islands. There were no plants or animals. A northern exposure ensured the apartment was usually dark. Avery threw her keys on the table and shed the rest of her belongings: gun, shoulder harness, walkie-talkie, badge, belt, phone, and wallet. She undressed on the way to the shower.
After a long soak to process the events of the day, she put on a robe, grabbed a beer from the fridge, then her phone, and headed out to the terrace.
Nearly twenty missed calls flashed on her cell, along with ten new messages. Most of them were from Connelly and O’Malley. There was a lot of screaming.
Sometimes Avery was so single-minded and driven she refused to pick up for anyone that wasn’t essential to her task, especially when all of the pieces hadn’t been put together; today was one of those days.
She scrolled down through last numbers dialed – and all the people that had called her in the past month. Not a single one was her daughter, or her ex-husband.
Suddenly, she missed them both.
Numbers were dialed.
The phone rang.
A message answered: “Hi, this is Rose. I’m not here right now to take your call, but if you leave a brief message, and your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks so much.” Beep.
Avery hung up.
She toyed with the idea of calling Jack, her ex. He was a good man, her college sweetheart with a heart of gold: a truly decent person. They’d had a torrid affair when she was eighteen, and she, with a sickening ego after her dream job, had ruined everything.
For years, she blamed other people about the split, and for the rift with her daughter: Howard Randall for his lies, her old boss, the money, the power, and all those people she had to constantly entertain and beguile to stay one step ahead of the truth: Little by little, her clients had become less reliable, and still she wanted to keep going, to ignore the truth, to bend justice one way or the other – simply to win. Only one more case, she often told herself. Next time, I’ll defend someone truly innocent and set the record straight.
Howard Randall had been that case.
I’m innocent, he’d cried at their first meeting. These students are my life. Why would I hurt one of them?
Avery had believed him, and for the first time in a long time, she had begun to believe in herself. Randall was a world-renowned psychology professor at Harvard, in his sixties, with no motive and no known history of his unhinged personal beliefs. More than that, he appeared weak and broken, and Avery had always wanted to defend the weak.
When she got him off, it was the highlight of her career, the highest of heights – that is, until he purposely killed again to expose her as a fraud.
All Avery had wanted to know was: why?
Why would you it? she’d asked him once in his cell. Why would you lie and set me up, just to go to prison for the rest of your life?
Because I knew you could be saved, Howard had replied.
Saved, Avery thought.
Is this salvation? she wondered and viewed her surroundings. Here? Now? No friends? No family? A beer in hand and a new life hunting down killers to make amends for my past? She took a swig of her drink and shook her head. No, this isn’t salvation. At least not yet.
Her thoughts turned to the killer.
A picture of him had begun to form in her mind: quiet, lonely, desperate for attention, a specialist with herbs and corpses. She ruled out an alcoholic or drug addict. He was too careful. The minivan harked to a family, but his actions seemed to indicate a family was what he wanted, not what he had.
Her mind swirling with thoughts and images, Avery downed two more beers before she suddenly fell asleep in her cozy outdoor chair.
CHAPTER NINE
In her dreams, Avery was with her family again.
Her ex was an athletic man with cropped brown hair and dazzling green eyes. Avid climbers, they were on a hike together with their daughter, Rose; she was only sixteen and had already received an early admission to Brandeis College, even though she was only a junior in high school, but in the dream she was six. They were all singing and walking along a path surrounded by dense trees. Dark birds fluttered and cried out before the trees morphed into a shadowy monster and a knife-like hand stabbed Rose in the chest.
“No!” Avery screamed.
Another hand stabbed Jack and both he and her daughter were hoisted away.
“No! No! No!” Avery cried.
The monster lowered.
Dark lips whispered in her ear.
There is no justice.
Avery jolted awake to the sound of incessant ringing. She was still on the terrace in her robe. The sun had already come up. Her phone continued to blare.
She picked up.
“Black.”
“Yo Black!” Ramirez answered. “Don’t you ever pick up? I’m downstairs. Get your shit together and get out here. I’ve got coffee and sketch samples.”
“What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“Give me five minutes,” she said and hung up.
The dream continued to permeate her thoughts. Sluggishly, Avery rose and headed into the apartment. Her head pounded. Faded blue jeans were tugged on. A white T-shirt was made respectable by a black blazer. Three chugs of orange juice and a downed granola bar was breakfast. On the way out, Avery glanced at herself in the mirror. Her attire, and her morning meal, were a far cry from thousand-dollar suits and daily breakfast at the finest restaurants. Get over it, she thought. You’re not here to look pretty. You’re here to bring in the bad guys.
Ramirez handed her a cup of coffee in the car.
“Looking good, Black,” he joked.
As always, he appeared to be the model of perfection: dark blue jeans, a light-blue button-down shirt, and a dark-blue jacket with light-brown belt and shoes.
“You should be a model,” Avery grumbled, “not a cop.”
A smile displayed his perfect teeth.
“Actually, I did do a little modeling once.”
He pulled out of the breezeway and headed north.
“You get any sleep last night?” he asked.
“Not much. How about you?”
‘“I slept like a baby,” he said proudly. “I always sleep well. None of this gets to me, you know? I like to let it ride,” he said and waved his hand through the air.
“Any updates?”
“Both boys were home last night. Connelly put a watch on them just to make sure they didn’t bolt. He also talked to the dean to get some information and make sure no one freaks out about a bunch of plainclothes cops hanging around campus. Neither kid has a file. Dean said they’re both good boys from good families. We’ll see today. Nothing yet from Sarah on the facial recognition. We should hear something this afternoon. A few dealerships called me back with names and numbers. I’m just going to keep a list for a while and see what happens. You see the morning paper?”
“No.”
He pulled it out and threw it on her lap. In big, bold letters, the headline read “Murder at Harvard.” There was another picture from Lederman Park, along with a smaller photo of the Harvard campus. The article inside rehashed the editorial from the previous day and included a smaller picture of Avery and Howard Randall from their days in court together. Cindy Jenkins was mentioned by name but there was no photo given.
“Slow day in the news?” Avery said.
“She’s a white girl from Harvard,” Ramirez replied, “of course it’s big news. We gotta keep those white kids safe.”
Avery raised a brow.
“That sounds vaguely racist.”
Ramirez vigorously nodded.
“Yeah,” he agreed, “I’m probably a little racist.”
They wove through the streets of South Boston and headed over the Longfellow Bridge and into Cambridge.
“Why’d you become a cop?” she asked.
“I love being a cop,” he said. “Father was a cop, grandfather was a cop, and now I’m a cop. Went to college and got bumped up quick. What’s not to love? I get to carry a gun and wear a badge. I just bought myself a boat. I go out on the bay, chill out, catch some fish, and then catch some killers. Doing God’s work.”
“Are you religious?”
“Nah,” he said, “just superstitious. If there is a god, I want him to know I’m on his side, you know what I mean?”
No, Avery thought, I don’t.
Her father had been an abusive man, and while her mother faithfully went to church and prayed to God, she was more of a fanatic than anything else.
The voice from her dream returned.
There is no justice.
You’re wrong, Avery replied. And I’m going to prove it.
* * *
Most Harvard seniors lived off-campus in some of the residential housing units owned by the school. George Fine was no exception.
Peabody Terrace was a large high-rise set along the Charles River near Akron Street. The white, twenty-four-story building included an expansive outdoor patio, beautiful lawns, and a clear view across the river for those students lucky enough to be placed on the higher floors; George was one of them.
A number of buildings connected Peabody Terrace. George Fine lived in Building E on the tenth floor. Ramirez parked his car along Akron Street and they made their way inside.
“Here’s his picture,” Ramirez said. “He should be asleep right now. His first class isn’t until ten thirty.”
The image was a smaller crop of a larger picture pulled of the Internet. It showed a disgruntled, extremely cocky student with oily black hair and dark eyes. A slight grin was on his face; he seemed to be challenging the photographer to find a flaw with his perfection. A strong jaw and pleasant features made Avery wonder why he was called a weirdo. He looks confident, she thought. So why stalk a girl that obviously has no interest in him?
Ramirez flashed his badge at the doorman.
“You got problems?” the doorman asked.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Ramirez replied.
They were waved up.
On the tenth floor, they turned left and walked down a long hallway. Carpets were tan brown swirls. Doors were painted glossy white.
Ramirez knocked on Apartment 10E.
“George,” he said, “you around?”
After a brief silence, someone said: “Get lost.”
“Police,” Avery interrupted and banged on the door. “Open up.”
Silence again, then ruffling and then more silence.
“Come on,” Avery called. “We don’t have all day. We just want to ask you a few questions.”
“You got a warrant?”
Ramirez raised his brows.
“Kid knows his stuff. Must be ivy educated.”
“We can have a warrant in about an hour,” Avery called out, “but if you make me leave and jump through hoops, I’m going to be pissed. I already feel like shit, today. You don’t want to see me pissed off, too. We just want to talk about Cindy Jenkins. We heard you knew her. Open the door and I’ll be your best friend.”
The bolt unlocked.
“You really do have a way with people,” Ramirez realized.
George appeared in a tank top and sweatpants, extremely muscular and toned. He was about 5’6”, the same height Avery associated with the killer based on Cindy’s records. Despite the look of someone that was either on drugs or who hadn’t slept in days, a fearlessness burned in his stare. Avery wondered if he’d been bullied for years and had finally decided to strike back.
“What do you want?” he said.
“Can we come in?” she asked.
“No, we can do this right here.”
Ramirez put his foot inside the room.
“Actually,” he said, “we’d rather come in.”
George looked from Avery to Ramirez – to the foot holding the door open. Resolved, he shrugged and backed away.
“Come on in,” he said. “I have nothing to hide.”
The room was large for a double occupancy, with a living space, terrace, two beds on opposite sides of the room, and a kitchen area. One bed was neatly made and piled with clothing and electronic equipment; the other one was a mess.
George sat on the messy bed. Hands beside him, he gripped the mattress. He appeared ready to lurch forward at any moment.
Ramirez stood by the terrace window and admired the view.
“This is some place,” he said. “Only a studio, but grand. Look at this view. Wow. You must love looking out at the river.”
“Let’s get this over with,” George said.
Avery pulled a chair and sat down facing George.
“We’re looking into the murder of Cindy Jenkins,” she said. “We thought you might be able to help us, seeing as you were one of the last people to see her alive.”
“A lot of people saw her alive.”
The words were meant to sound tough, but there was pain in his eyes.
“We were under the impression you liked her.”
“I loved her,” he said. “What does that matter? She’s gone now. No one can help me.”
Ramirez and Avery shared a look.
“What does that mean?” Ramirez asked.
“The way I understand it,” Avery said, “you left the party right after her.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he declared, “if that’s what you mean. I left the party because she practically stumbled out of the door. I was worried about her. I couldn’t find her when I got downstairs. I had to say goodbye to a few people. Ask around. That’s the truth.”
“Why would you need to say goodbye to anyone?” Ramirez asked. “If you were in love with her, and worried, why wouldn’t you just help?”
“Talk to my lawyer.”
“You’re hiding something,” Ramirez pointed out.
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Prove it.”
George lowered his gaze and shook his head.
“She ruined my life,” he said. “She ruined my life and now you’re trying to ruin my life too. You think you’re so important.”
Ramirez gave Avery a look as if to say this kid is loco! and moved out to admire the spectacular view from the terrace.
Avery knew better. She’d seen his type before, both as an attorney and a cop. There was something damaged about him, and powerful. Coiled and ready to strike, she thought, just like some of the gang members she’d interviewed: an innocence mixed with indignation that quickly turned to violence. A hand went to her belt. Her fingers slid close to her holster without actually making a move toward the gun.
“What did you mean by that, George?” she asked.
When he looked up, his body was flexed. A wild grimace marred his features. Eyes were wide and lips pulled in. He cringed. On the verge of tears, he sucked it back.
“I matter,” he cried.
A cocky swagger took over. He stood up and extended his arms wide. Tears came and surprised him, and he then he gave in to the tears.
“I matter,” he sobbed and squatted down.
Avery stood up and moved away, hand close to her gun.
“What’s this all about?” Ramirez asked.
“Leave him alone,” Avery said.
Oblivious to the desperation that reeked out of their broken suspect, Ramirez squatted down beside George and said: “Hey, man, it’s OK. If you did it, just admit it. Maybe you’re crazy or something. We can get you help. That’s why we’re here.”
George stiffened and went still.
A whisper came from his lips.
“I’m not crazy,” he said, “I’m just sick of you people.”
As deftly as a trained soldier, a hand went behind his back and pulled a hidden blade. In the next instant, he spun around Ramirez and clinched his neck. He quickly stabbed his right side, just below his chest, and as Ramirez screamed out, George sank back into a sitting position, using Ramirez as a shield.
Avery drew her weapon.
“Don’t move!” she called.
George held the blade to Ramirez’s temple.
“Who’s the loser now?” he said. “Who!?” he screamed.
“Drop it!”
Ramirez groaned from the wound between his ribs. The arm around his neck clearly made it difficult for him to breathe. He reached for his gun but the point of the blade pressed deeper into his temple. George hugged him tight and whispered in his ear.
“Be still.”
A groan from Ramirez and then he screamed out.
“Shoot this fucker!”
Avery watched as George pressed the knife tight against Ramirez’s head, and a trickle of blood began to flow – and in that moment, she knew she had no choice. It was her partner’s life or this creep’s – and any second could make the difference.
She fired.
Suddenly, George screamed out in pain and went stumbling backwards, releasing his grip on Ramirez.
Avery looked over and saw him covered in blood, grabbing his shoulder. She was relieved to see it was a clean shoulder shot, just as she had hoped.
Ramirez scrambled to get his gun, but before he could react, suddenly George was back up on his feet. Avery couldn’t believe it. Nothing could stop this kid.
Surprising her even more was that George did not charge Ramirez, or her.
He was charging for the open balcony.
“WAIT!” Avery screamed.
But there was no time. He had a good ten feet on her, and she could see from his sprint that he was going to jump.
Again, she made a hard choice.
Again, she fired.
This time, she aimed for his leg.
He went down, face first, grabbing his knee, and this time he didn’t get back up. He lay there, groaning, feet from the balcony.
Ramirez stood and whirled around. With a hand on his wound, he grabbed his gun and pointed the muzzle at George’s face.
“You fuckin’ cut me!”
“I’ve got him,” Avery said.
Ramirez threw a kick to George’s side and Ramirez cringed from the pain as he did so, holding his wound tighter.
“Fuck!” he screamed.
On his side on the ground, George smiled, blood pouring from his lips.
“Did that feel good, cop? I hope it did, because I’m going to get out of this.”
Avery stepped forward, pulled out her cuffs, yanked his arms behind his back, and clamped them tight.
“You,” she said, “are going to jail.”
CHAPTER TEN
Avery called 911 with her gun trained on George. She used her walkie-talkie to dial backup. Ramirez couldn’t get over how stupid he’d been, or how much the wound actually hurt. Every so often, he’d shake his head and mumble to himself.
“Can’t believe this punk got the jump on me.”
“He’s fast,” Avery said. “You have training, George? Army? Navy? Is that how you were able to abduct Cindy?”
George sat cross-legged and silent with his head low.
“How’s the wound?” Avery asked Ramirez.
“I don’t know. I can breathe, so maybe he missed the lung. But the fucker hurts.”
He then stopped and looked at her with awe.
“Thanks, Black. You had my back. I owe you one.”
When the ambulance arrived, the EMT applied pressure to the wound and asked Ramirez a few questions. The initial diagnosis was that the knife might have missed the lung. The entire time, Ramirez kept shaking his head. “Stupid,” he said. “Stupid.”
A gurney was brought in to take him away.
“I’ll be back,” he said to Avery. “Don’t worry. This is nothing. Just a scratch. Hey, George,” he called out. “You assaulted a cop. That’s six years maximum. And if you killed a little girl, you get life.”
Harvard security stayed with Avery until the police came for George. Nobody spoke the entire time. Avery had been around killers before, lots of killers, in her three years on the force, but it was kids with guns and knives that always gave her pause: kids like George. College student. Harvard University. Someone that seemingly had it all, and yet on the inside he was fractured, broken.
Once the cops came and took George away, Avery stood alone in the apartment. The word “why” kept going through her head.
Why did he do this?
Why? Why? Why?
The face of Howard Randall kept appearing. What’s wrong with this world? she wondered. Look at this place. Sky view. Luxury all the way. Young, good-looking, physically fit, and yet he just attacked and stabbed a police officer. Other faces came to mind: gang faces and angry husbands and drunken psychos that killed innocent people and other kids, some six years old with Uzis strapped around their chests.
Why?
Was it pain? The pain of such a hard life?
A memory came: her father, unkempt gray hair, missing teeth, a shotgun in his hand. “You want to talk about pain?” he’d snapped. “I’ll shoot you in the fucking head! Then you’ll know pain, won’t you, girl? Won’t you!?”
Avery stood up.
It had been had been hard to focus on the apartment until everyone was gone. Now she made the room, and George Fine, her top priority.
Who are you? she asked.
The walls were practically bare except for one picture of George, proudly displaying a medal he’d won for a race. On his desk, Avery found keys and a wallet. At least ten keys were on the chain. What do you need all these for? she wondered.
No password locked his computer. A check of his recent Internet activity proved useless: a bunch of porn videos, relationship advice, and workout locations around campus. Two social networking sites were open. He had thirty-two friends on one of them. Mr. Popularity, she sarcastically thought.
Hidden in his closet was a box full of pictures: George with a group of men in the woods all wearing Army Reserve T-shirts; George between his parents with Harvard in the background; and Cindy Jenkins, hundreds of photos of Cindy Jenkins: Cindy at the mall, Cindy in Harvard Yard, Cindy at a party. Every photo appeared to have been taken in secret, from afar, or sometimes from right beside her, without her knowledge.
“Jesus.”
Anger welled up inside of her, not at the find or what George might have done if left unchecked, but at Harvard, the dean, and a life of secrecy that had nearly killed her partner.
A few minutes searching on her phone and Avery dialed a number.
“I want to speak to Dean Isley, right now,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” the assistant replied, “the dean is in a meeting.”
“I don’t care if he’s on the fucking moon,” Avery snapped. “This is Avery Black, Boston PD, Homicide. I’m standing in the room of one of your students: George Fine. Does Isley know about George? He must, because your ‘normal’ Harvard senior just stabbed a cop. Get him on the phone right now!”
“Hold, please.”
Two minutes later, the dean came on.
“Hello, Detective Black,” he said, “sorry about the wait. I’ve just been briefed on your activities this morning.”
“I just want to understand something,” Avery said. “My supervisor, Dylan Connelly, called you last night for a background check on George Fine and Winston Graves. You said, and I quote my partner here, the one that was stabbed, ‘They’re both good boys from good families.’ Do you want to revise that statement?”
The dean cleared his throat.
“I’m not sure what you’re asking,” he said.
“Really? Because I think I’m being crystal clear. Let me say it in another way. We’ve got one downed cop. We’ve got one dead girl. Now we have a prime suspect who you said wasn’t a problem. I’m giving you one last opportunity to revise your statement before I seriously consider pressing charges. I just discovered George Fine was an army reserve. That might have been relevant information, don’t you think? He’s also a trained martial artist. Again, relevant. Good boy from good family just doesn’t cut it. What else do you know about him?”
“Officer Black, our relationship to our students is – ”
“Tell me now or I hang up and you’re on your own.”
“Ms. Black, I can’t just – ”
“Five…four…at one I hang up…”
“We have – ”
“You have a dead girl and a possible murderer on your hands…three…two…”
“All right!” he yelled, flustered.
His voice went low.
“Now mind you,” he said, “no one here actually believes that one of our students could possibly be responsible for – ”
“He stabbed a cop. My partner. Tell me what you know.”
“He was on disciplinary probation his first two years at the college,” the dean admitted. “He’d followed a young girl here from Scarsdale: Tammy Smith. There were…problems. No charges were filed. We didn’t want the press. He was under strict orders to stay two hundred yards away from her and have weekly meetings with our school psychologist. I was under the impression his sessions were going well. He’s been a model student ever since.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all. The files are here if you care to look through them.”
‘What about Winston Graves?”
“Graves?” The dean nearly laughed, “He’s one of our top seniors, a standout in every way. I hold him and his family in the highest regard.”
“No secrets?” Avery pushed.
“Not that I’m aware.”
“That means maybe,” Avery said. “I’ll check on my own. And the next time a cop calls you for information, you might want to be as forthcoming as possible. ‘Cop stabbed in Harvard dorm’ probably isn’t a great headline for school admissions.”
“Wait a minute, I thought we – ”
Avery hung up.
The next call was to Jones, a skinny, humorous Jamaican who complained about everything, even when he was having the time of his life.
“Jones here,” he said.
“This is Black. Where are you on the street surveillance?”
Jones was cramped in a dark office space surrounded by two technicians in blue. He leaned forward on his keypad and cocked his eyes like he was about to jump off a roof.
“You crazy, Black,” he complained. “You know that, right? How much longer I gotta do this maddening shit? It’s like a guessing game out here. I have to guess where he might have gone, then I gotta access those cameras and punch in the right times and see what happens. Hours and hours I stare at nothing. Only once I get lucky.”
“You got lucky?”
“Yeah,” he said and watched the screen. “I’m in traffic control right now with Stan and his girlfriend Frank. These guys are great. They helping me out all day. So here’s what I do. I accessed the cameras on the street lights on Auburn, at Hawthorn. You know what I find? I find your minivan. He go straight up Auburn, past Hawthorn. I check on Auburn further west, just past Aberdeen, and I see the minivan again. He’s heading west.”
“Where did he go after that?”
“Are you fuckin’ serious!” Jones cried. “What I look like? I ain’t no satellite imagery system over here! That took me like, five hours!”
“Keep on it,” Avery said and hung up.
The minivan was headed west, she thought. Out of the city. If George is our guy, he definitely had a house somewhere.
Her next call was to Thompson, longtime partner of Jones, a huge, brutish man who looked almost albino from his coloring, with blond hair, full lips, and the facial features of a woman. Thompson was kicked back in an office with a bunch of state troopers, eating donuts and telling a story about when he caught Jones sleeping and painted a bunny face on him.
“Thompson,” he answered in a deep voice.
“It’s Black. What’s the update?”
“The minivan headed north up Charles Street. That’s all I’ve got. Wasn’t sure if I should check the bridges or not.”
“We’ve got a murderer on the loose,” Avery snapped. “You check everything. Your partner Jones is already way ahead of you. Where did he go after Charles Street?”
“Let me figure that out,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “You’re off surveillance duty for the day. I need you on something more important: George Fine. Harvard student. I’m here now. Ramirez’s been stabbed. He’s at the hospital. I need everything you can find on George Fine. Contact his parents if you have to. He’s in police custody. Does he have a house somewhere, maybe northwest of Harvard? Keys are right here on his desk. Any previous medical history? Talk to his friends, family, anyone you can, you understand? No password on his computer so you can go through that too. You’re on Harvard duty for the rest of the day.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
“No – you’ll get here now!” she yelled and hung up.
North, she thought. He went north from Lederman Park. Maybe over the bridge and right into Harvard? Then why would you go west after you picked up Cindy from the alley?
Talk to me, Fine, she thought and gazed around the room. Talk to me.
* * *
An hour later, Avery was at the hospital.
The knife had only slightly perforated Ramirez’s lung. Luckily, it had missed all the other major organs, but doctors needed to go in and stitch up the internal wound.
She headed to the waiting room.
Three plainclothes cops were already there. One of the cops had a frog-like face; he was pudgy but solid, with cropped black hair and narrow eyes.
Great, Avery thought. Finley.
Finley Stalls was one of the worst bullies in the department, a deeply unhappy Irishman who drank every night and walked around the office in a foul mood every day. He had a sardonic sense of humor, and although he was never the first person to pick on Avery, he was always the last one laughing.