Cause to Kill. Blake Pierce

She could only look forward.

      “You turned it around, though” – he nodded in respect – “made a new life for yourself down here. On the right side this time. Gotta respect that. But,” he said, looking her over, “I want to make sure you’re ready. Are you ready?”

      She stared back, wondering where he was going with this.

      “If I wasn’t ready,” she said, “I wouldn’t be here.”

      He nodded, seemingly satisfied.

      “We just got a call,” he said. “A dead girl. Staged. It doesn’t look good. Guys on the scene don’t know what to make of it.”

      Avery’s heart beat faster.

      “I’m ready,” she said.

      “Are you?” he asked. “You’re good, but if this turns out to be something big, I want to make sure you won’t crack.”

      “I don’t crack,” she said.

      “That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said and pushed some papers on his desk. “Dylan Connelly supervises Homicide. He’s over there now working with forensics. You’ve got a new partner, too. Try not to get him killed.”

      “That wasn’t my fault,” Avery complained, and she inwardly bristled at the recent Internal Affairs investigation, all because her former partner – a prejudiced hothead – had jumped the gun and tried to infiltrate a gang all by himself and take credit for her work.

      The chief pointed outside.

      “Your partner’s waiting. I’ve made you lead detective. Don’t let me down.”

      She turned to see Ramirez waiting. She groaned.

      “Ramirez? Why him?”

      “Honestly?” The captain shrugged. “He’s the only one that wanted to work with you. Everyone else here seems to hate you.”

      She felt that knot in her stomach tightening.

      “Tread softly, young detective,” he added, as he stood, signaling their meeting was over. “You need all the friends you can get.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      “How did it go?” Ramirez asked, as Avery exited the office.

      She lowered her head and kept on walking. Avery hated small talk, and she didn’t trust any of her fellow cops to talk to her without trading barbs.

      “Where are we headed?” she replied.

      “All business.” Ramirez smiled. “Good to know. All right, Black; we’ve got a dead girl placed on a bench in Lederman Park, by the river. It’s a high-traffic area. Not really a place you’d put a body.”

      Officers slapped palms with Ramirez.

      “Go get her, tiger!”

      “Break her in right, Ramirez.”

      Avery shook her head. “Nice,” she said.

      Ramirez raised his hands.

      “It’s not me.”

      “It’s all of you,” she sneered. “I never thought a police station would be worse than a law firm. Secret boys’ club, right? No girls allowed?”

      “Easy, Black.”

      She headed toward the elevators. A few officers cheered at getting under her skin. Usually, Avery was able to ignore it, but something about her new case had already shaken her tough exterior. The words the captain had used weren’t typical of a simple homicide: Don’t know what to make of it. Staged.

      And the cocky, aloof air of her new partner wasn’t exactly comforting: Seems cut and dry. Nothing was ever cut and dry.

      The elevator door was about to close when Ramirez put his hand through.

      “I’m sorry, all right?”

      He seemed sincere. Palms up, an apologetic look in his dark eyes. A button was pressed and they moved down.

      Avery glanced at him.

      “The captain said you were the only one that wanted to work with me. Why?”

      “You’re Avery Black,” he replied as if the answer were obvious. “How could I not be curious? Nobody really knows you, but everyone seems to have an opinion: idiot, genius, has-been, up-and-comer, murderer, savior. I wanted to sort out fact from fiction.”

      “Why do you care?”

      Ramirez flashed an enigmatic smile.

      But he said nothing.

* * *

      Avery followed Ramirez as he walked easily through the parking garage. He wore no tie and his top two buttons were open.

      “I’m over there,” he pointed.

      They passed a few uniformed officers that seemed to know him; one waved and flashed a strange look that seemed to ask: What are you doing with her?

      He led her to a dusty, crimson Cadillac, old, with torn tan seats on the inside.

      “Solid ride,” Avery joked.

      “This baby has saved me many times,” he relayed with pride as he lovingly pat the hood. “All I have to do is dress like a pimp or a starving Spaniard and nobody pays me any mind.”

      They headed out of the lot.

      Lederman Park was only a few miles from the police station. They drove west on Cambridge Street and took a right on Blossom.

      “So,” Ramirez said, “I heard you were a lawyer once.”

      “Yeah?” Guarded blue eyes flashed him a sidelong glance. “What else did you hear?”

      “Criminal defense attorney,” he added, “best of the best. You worked at Goldfinch & Seymour. Not a shabby operation. What made you quit?”

      “You don’t know?”

      “I know you defended a lot of scumbags. Perfect record, right? You even had a few dirty cops put behind bars. Must have been living the life. Huge salary, an endless stream of success. What kind of person leaves all that behind to join the force?”

      Avery remembered the house she’d grown up in, a small farm surrounded by flat land for miles. The solitude had never suited her. Neither had the animals or the smell of the place: feces and fur and feathers. From the beginning she’d wanted to get out. She had: Boston. First the university and then the law school and career.

      And now this.

      A sigh escaped her lips.

      “I guess, sometimes things don’t work out the way we plan.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      In her mind, she saw the smile again, that old, sinister smile from a wrinkled old man with thick glasses. He’d seemed so sincere at first, so humble and smart and honest. All of them had, she realized.

      Until their trials were over and they went back to their everyday lives and she was forced to accept that she was no savior of the helpless, no defender of the people, but a pawn, a simple pawn in a game too complex and rooted to change.

      “Life is hard,” she mused. “You think you know something one day and then the next day, the veil gets pulled down and everything changes.”

      He nodded.

      “Howard Randall,” he said, clearly realizing.

      The name made her more aware of everything – the cool air in the car, her position on the seat, their location in the city. Nobody had said his name aloud in a long time, especially to her. She felt exposed and vulnerable, and in response she tightened her body and sat taller.

      “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to – ”

      “It’s fine,” she said.

      Only it wasn’t fine. Everything had ended after him. Her life. Her job.