Cause to Run. Blake Pierce

not what you told me, Will. You said your guys came in, they didn’t understand what they were looking at, and so the mayor suggested you ask someone who’s had some experience in this kind of thing.”

      “Either way,” Holt snarled and pompously lifted his chin.

      “Go take a look,” O’Malley said and pointed to the yacht. “See what you can find. If she comes up empty,” he added to Holt, “we’ll be on our way. Does that seem fair?”

      Holt stomped off toward his two other detectives.

      “Those two are from his homicide squad,” O’Malley indicated. “Don’t look at them. Don’t talk to them. Don’t ruffle any feathers. This is a very delicate political situation. Just keep your mouth shut and tell me what you see.”

      Ramirez practically gushed as they walked up to the large yacht.

      “This is one sweet ride,” he said. “Looks like a Sea Ray 58 Sedan Bridge. Double decker. Gives you shade up top, AC inside.”

      Avery was impressed.

      “How do you know all that?” she asked.

      “I like to fish.” He shrugged. “Never fished on anything like this before, but a man can dream, right? I should take you out on my boat sometime.”

      Avery had never truly enjoyed the sea. Beaches, sometimes; lakes, absolutely; but sailboats and motor vessels far out on the ocean? Panic attacks. She’d been born and raised on flat land, and the thought of being out on the bobbing, crashing tides, with no idea what might be lurking just beneath the waves, made her mind go to dark places.

      As Avery and Ramirez passed by and prepared to board the boat, Holt and his two detectives ignored them. A photographer at the bow snapped one last picture and signaled to Holt. He made his way along the gunwale on the starboard side and wiggled his eyebrows at Avery. “You’ll never look at a yacht the same way again,” he joked.

      A silver stepladder led to the ship’s side. Avery climbed up, placed her palms on the black windows, and shimmied toward the front.

      A middle-aged, saintly looking woman with wild red hair had been positioned on the front of the ship, just before the bow sidelights. She lay scrunched up on her side, facing east, with her hands gripped to her knees and her head down. If she’d been sitting upright she might have appeared asleep. She was completely naked, and the only visible wound was the dark line around her neck. He snapped it, Avery thought.

      What made the victim stand out, beyond the nudity and the public display of her death, was the shadow she cast. The sun was up in the east. Her body was slightly angled upward, and it produced a mirror image of her scrunched form in a long, warped shadow.

      “Fuck me,” Ramirez whispered.

      As Avery did when she was cleaning surfaces in her home, she got down low and glanced at the ship’s bow. The shadow was either a coincidence or a meaningful sign by the killer, and if he’d left one sign, he might have left another. She moved from one side of the ship to the other.

      In the glare of the sun, on the white surface of the ship’s bow, right above the woman’s head, between her body and her shadow, Avery spotted a star. Someone had used their finger to draw a star, either in spit or saltwater.

      Ramirez called down to O’Malley.

      “What did forensics say?”

      “Found some hairs on the body. Could be from a carpet. The other team is still over at the apartment.”

      “What apartment?”

      “The woman’s apartment,” O’Malley called up. “We believe she was abducted from there. No prints anywhere. Guy might have been wearing gloves. How he transferred her here, to a very visible dock, without anyone seeing, we don’t know. He blacked out some of the marina cameras here. Must have been done right before the murder. She was possibly killed last night. Body seems unmolested, but the coroner has to give the final say.”

      Holt scoffed at nothing.

      “This is a waste of our time,” he snapped at O’Malley. “What can that woman possibly offer that my men haven’t already discovered? I don’t care about her last case or her public persona. As far as I’m concerned she’s just a washed-up attorney who got lucky on her first major case because a serial killer, that she defended in court, helped her!”

      Avery stood up, leaned on the railing, and observed Holt, O’Malley, and the two other detectives on the dock. Wind ruffled her jacket and pants.

      “Did you see the star?” she asked.

      “What star?” Holt called up.

      “Her body is angled to the side and up. In the sunlight, it creates a shadow image of her form. Very distinct. Almost looks like two people, back-to-back. Between her body and that shadow, someone drew a star. Could be a coincidence, but the placement is perfect. Maybe we can get lucky if the killer drew it in spit.”

      Holt consulted with one of his men.

      “Did you see a star?”

      “No sir,” replied a lean, blond detective with brown eyes.

      “Forensics?”

      The detective shook his head.

      “Ridiculous,” Holt mumbled. “A drawn star? A child could have done that. A shadow? Shadows are created by light. There’s nothing special about that, Detective Black.”

      “Who owns the yacht?” Avery asked.

      “A dead end.” O’Malley shrugged. “Bigshot real estate developer. He’s away in Brazil on business. Been gone for the last month.”

      “If the boat’s been cleaned in the last month,” Avery said, “then that star was put there by the killer, and since it’s in perfect placement between the body and the shadow, it has to mean something. I’m not sure what, but something.”

      O’Malley glanced at Holt.

      Holt sighed.

      “Simms,” he noted to the blond officer, “get forensics back here. See about that star, and the shadow. I’ll call you when we’re finished.”

      Miserably, Holt glanced at Avery, then finally, he shook his head.

      “Let her see the apartment.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      Avery walked slowly down the hall of the dim apartment building, flanked by Ramirez, her heart pounding with anticipation as it always did when entering a crime scene. At this moment, she wished she was anywhere but here.

      She snapped out of it. She put her game face on and forced herself to observe every detail, however minute.

      The victim’s apartment door was open. An officer stationed outside moved away and allowed Avery and the others to duck under the crime scene tape and enter.

      A narrow hallway led to a living room. A kitchen branched off from the hall. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary anywhere; just someone’s very nice apartment. Walls were painted a light gray. There were bookshelves everywhere. Piles of books were stacked on the ground. Plants hung from the windows. A green couch faced a television set. In the only bedroom, the bed was made and topped with a lacy white blanket.

      The only obvious disturbance to the apartment was in the living room, where a central rug was clearly missing. A dusty outline, along with a darker space, had been marked with numerous yellow police tags.

      “What did forensics find here?” Avery asked.

      “Nothing,” O’Malley said. “No prints. No camera shots. We’re in the dark right now.”

      “Anything taken from the apartment?”

      “Not that we know. Change jar is full. Her clothes were neatly placed in her hamper. Money and ID were still in the pockets.”

      Avery took her time in the apartment.

      As