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Cause to Run

CHAPTER SIX

The corner coffee shop was on the northern side of the underpass to the East Boston Expressway. A one-story brick building with large windows and a simple sign, Coffee Shop, served as the location. The windows were blacked out.

Avery parked right near the door entrance and got out.

A darkening had come to the sky. Toward the southwest, she could see the sunset horizon of orange, red, and yellow. A grocery store was on the opposite corner. Residential homes filled the rest of the street. The area was quiet and unassuming.

“Let’s do this,” Ramirez said.

After a long day just following along and sitting in a meeting, Ramirez seemed pumped and ready for action. His eagerness worried Avery. Gangs don’t like jumpy cops invading their hood, she thought. Especially ones with no warrant who are only there on hearsay.

“Easy,” she said. “I’ll ask the questions. No sudden moves. No attitude of any kind, OK? We’re just here to ask questions and see if they can help.”

“Sure.” Ramirez frowned, and his body language said otherwise.

A jingle of a bell came as they entered the shop.

The tiny space held four cushioned red booths and a single counter where people could order coffee and other breakfast items throughout the day. There were barely fifteen items listed on the menu and few customers.

Two old, thin Latino men that might have been homeless drank coffee at one of the booths on the left. A younger gentleman wearing sunglasses and a black fedora was slouched in one of the booths and turned toward the door. He wore a black tank top. A gun was clearly holstered in a shoulder strap. Avery glanced at his shoes. Eight and a half, she thought. Nine, tops.

“Puta,” he whispered at the sight of Avery.

The older men seemed oblivious.

No chef or takeout employee was visible behind the counter.

“Hi there.” Avery waved. “We’d like to speak to Juan Desoto if he’s around.”

The young man laughed.

Quick words were spoken in Spanish.

“He says, ‘fuck you, cop whore and your bitch boy,’” Ramirez translated.

“Lovely,” Avery said. “Listen, we don’t want any trouble,” she added and held up both palms in submission. “We just want to ask Desoto a few questions about a bookstore on Sumner Street that he doesn’t seem to like.”

The man sat up and pointed at the door.

“Get the fuck out, cop!”

There were a lot of ways Avery could have handled the situation. The man was carrying a gun and she guessed it was loaded and had no license. He also seemed ready to engage despite the fact that nothing had actually occurred. That, combined with the empty counter, led her to believe that something might be going on in a back room. Drugs, she guessed, or they have some hapless store owner back there and are beating him to a pulp.

“All we want is a few minutes with Desoto,” she said.

“Bitch!” the man snapped and stood and pulled his gun.

Ramirez instantly drew.

The two older men continued to drink their coffee and sit in silence.

Ramirez called out over the barrel of his gun.

“Avery?”

“Everybody calm down,” Avery said.

A man appeared in a cooking window behind the main counter, a big man by the look of his neck and round cheeks. He seemed to be leaning into the window, which gave him a foreshortened height. His face was partially hidden in dim shadow; a bald, light-skinned Latino with a humorous glint in his eyes. A smile was on his lips. In his mouth was a grill that made all of his teeth look like sharp diamonds. No outward display of malice could be observed, but he was so cool and calm given the tense situation that it made Avery wonder why.

“Desoto,” she said.

“No weapons, no weapons,” Desoto mentioned from the square window. “Tito,” he called, “put your gun on the table. Cops. Put your guns on the table. No weapons here.”

“No way,” Ramirez said and kept his gun pointed at the other man.

Avery could feel the short blade she kept attached to her ankle, just in case she ran into trouble. Also, everyone knew they were headed to Desoto’s place. We’ll be all right, she thought. I hope.

“Put it down,” she said.

As a show of good faith, Avery gently pulled her Glock out with her fingertips and put it on the table between the two older men.

“Do it,” she said to Ramirez. “Put it on the table.”

“Shit,” Ramirez whispered. “This is no good. No good.” Still, he complied; placed his gun on a table. The other man, Tito, then put his own gun down and smiled.

“Thank you,” Desoto said. “Don’t worry. No one wants your cop guns. They’ll be safe right there. Come. Talk.”

He disappeared from view.

Tito indicated a small red door, practically impossible to notice given its location behind one of the booths.

“You first,” Ramirez said.

Tito bowed and entered.

Ramirez stepped through next and Avery followed.

The red door opened into the kitchen. A hallway moved further back. Directly in front of them were basement stairs, steep and dark. At the bottom was another door.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Ramirez whispered.

“Quiet,” Avery whispered.

A poker game was being played in the room beyond. Five men, all Latino, well-dressed and strapped with guns, went silent on their approach. The table was packed with money and jewelry. Couches lined the walls of the large space. On numerous shelves, Avery noticed machine guns and machetes. One other door was visible. A quick glance at their feet revealed that none of them had shoes large enough to match the killer.

On the couch, arms splayed wide, and with a huge smile on his face that exposed the grill of razor teeth, sat Juan Desoto. His body was more bull than man, pumped up and chiseled from daily workouts and, Avery guessed, steroids. A giant even though seated, he might have stood to nearly seven feet tall. His feet, similarly, were huge. At least a twelve, Avery thought.

“Relax, everyone, relax,” Desoto commanded. “Play, play,” he urged his men. “Tito, get them something to drink. What would you like, Officer Black,” he said with emphasis.

“You know me?” Avery asked.

“I don’t know you,” he replied. “I know of you. You arrested my little cousin Valdez two years ago, and some of my good friends in the West Side Killers. Yes, I have many friends in other gangs,” he said at Avery’s surprised look. “Not all gangs fight each other like animals. I like to think bigger than that. Please. What can I get for you?”

“Nothing for me,” Ramirez said.

“I’m fine,” she added.

Desoto nodded to Tito, who left the way he’d come. All men at the table continued to play cards except one. The odd man out was a spitting image of Desoto, only much smaller and younger. He muttered something to Desoto and the two of them had a fiery conversation.

“That’s Desoto’s little brother,” Ramirez translated. “He thinks they should just kill both of us and dump us in the river. Desoto is trying to tell him that that’s why he’s always in prison, because he thinks too much when he should just keep his mouth shut and listen.”

“Sientate!” Desoto finally shouted.

Reluctantly, his little brother sat down but he glared hard at Avery.

Desoto took in a breath.

“You like being a big celebrity cop?” he asked.

“Not really,” Avery said. “Gives guys like you a target in the police department. I don’t like to be a target.”

“True, true,” he said.

“We’re looking for information,” Avery added. “A middle-aged woman named Henrietta Venemeer owns a bookstore on Sumner. Spiritual books, new age, psychology, things like that. Rumor has it you don’t like the shop. She was being harassed.”

“By me?” he noted in surprise and pointed to himself.

“By you or your men. We’re not sure. That’s why we’re here.”

“Why would you come all the way into the devil’s den to ask about some woman at a bookshop? Please, explain this to me.”

No recognition of Henrietta or the bookstore appeared on his face. In fact, Avery thought he was insulted by the accusation.

“She was murdered last night,” Avery said and paid careful attention to the men in the room and how they reacted. “Her neck was broken and she was tied to a yacht at the marina on Marginal Street.”

“Why would I do this?” he asked.

“That’s what we want to find out.”

Desoto began to speak to his men in very quick and agitated Spanish. His little brother and another man seemed genuinely annoyed that they would be accused of something so clearly beneath them. The other three, however, turned sheepish under the interrogation. An argument ensued. At one point, Desoto stood up in anger and displayed his full height and size.

“These three have been to the shop,” Ramirez whispered. “They robbed it twice. Desoto is pissed because this is the first time he’s hearing about it, and he never got his cut.”

With a loud roar, Desoto hammered his fist onto the table and cracked it in half. Bills and change and jewelry went flying. A necklace nearly whipped into Avery’s face and she was forced to stand back against the door. All five men pushed away in their chairs. Desoto’s little brother yelled out in frustration and raised his arms. Desoto kept his fury squarely placed on one man in particular. A finger was pointed in the man’s face, and a threat was given and received.

“That guy took the others to the shop,” Ramirez whispered. “He’s in trouble.”

Desoto turned with his arms wide.

“I apologize,” he said. “My men did indeed accost this woman in her shop. Twice. This is the first I’ve ever heard of it.”

Avery’s heart was beating fast. They were in an isolated room full of angry criminals with weapons, and regardless of Desoto’s words and gestures, he was an intimidating presence, and, if the rumors were true, a mass murderer. Suddenly, the feel of her small blade so far out of reach wasn’t as comforting as she’d thought.

“Thanks for that,” Avery said. “Just to be sure we’re on the same page, would any of your men have any reason to kill Henrietta Venemeer?”

“No one kills without my approval,” he flatly stated.

“Venemeer was strangely placed on the ship,” Avery pushed. “In full view of the harbor. A star was drawn above her head. Would that mean anything to you?”

“Do you remember my cousin?” Desoto asked. “Michael Cruz? Little guy? Skinny?”

“I don’t.”

“You broke his arm. I asked him how a little girl could have bested him, and he said that you were very fast, and very strong. Do you think you could take me, Officer Black?”

The downward spiral began.

Avery could feel it. Desoto was bored. He’d answered their questions and he was bored and angry and he had two unarmed cops in his private room beneath a shop. Even the men who’d been playing poker were fully locked onto both of them.

“No,” she said. “I think you could murder me in hand-to-hand combat.”

“I believe in an eye for an eye,” Desoto said. “I believe when information is given, information should be received. Balance,” he stressed, “is very important in life. I have given you information. You arrested my cousin. You have now taken from me twice. You see this, yes?” he asked. “You owe me something.”

Avery backed up and assumed her traditional jujitsu stance, legs bent and slightly parted, arms up and hands open under her chin.

“What do I owe you?” she asked.

With only a grunt, Desoto jumped forward, cocked his right arm, and punched.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The room emptied in Avery’s mind; it turned black, and all she could see were the five men, and feel Ramirez next to her, and see Desoto’s fist moving closer to her face. She called it the fog, a place where she’d often been during her running days – another world, separate from her physical existence. Her jujitsu instructor had called it “the ultimate awareness,” a place where focus became selective, so the senses were more heightened around specific targets.

She spun into Desoto’s arm and gripped his wrist. At the same time, her hip popped back into his body for leverage, and she used his own momentum to throw him into the basement door. Wood cracked and the giant man crashed hard.

Without breaking her stride, Avery spun and kicked an attacker in the stomach. After that, everything moved in slow motion. Each of the five men was targeted for maximum damage with minimal aggression. A jab to the throat made one fall to the ground. A kick to the groin followed by a hard back-spin and another man crashed on the broken table. She lost Desoto’s little brother for a second. She turned to see him about to punch her with a pair of brass knuckles; Ramirez jumped in and tackled him to the ground.

Desoto roared and grabbed Avery in a bear hug from behind.

The massive weight of his body was like a cement block. Avery couldn’t break his hold. She kicked at the air. He lifted her up and threw her into a wall.

Avery slammed into a shelving system and the entire unit fell on her head when she dropped to the ground. Desoto kicked her in the stomach; the blow was so powerful it lifted her up. Another kick and her neck snapped back. Desoto lowered down. Thick arms clutched her neck in a dangerous choke. A quick lift and she was up – feet dangling.

“I could snap your neck,” he whispered, “like a twig.”

Groggy.

Her mind was groggy from the blows. Air was hard to take in.

Focus, she commanded. Or you’re dead.

She tried to flip over his body, or break the hold with his arms. An iron grip held her fast. Something slammed into Desoto’s back. He lowered Avery’s feet to the ground and looked behind him to see Ramirez with a chair.

“That didn’t hurt you?” Ramirez asked.

Desoto growled.

Avery collected herself, lifted her foot, and stomped her heel into his toes.

“Ah!” Desoto howled.

He wore a white button-down T-shirt, tan shorts, and flip-flops; Avery’s heel had cracked two bones. Instinctively, he let go, and by the time he was ready to grip her again, Avery was in stance. One quick punch to his throat was followed by a jab to his solar plexus.

An iron bat was on the ground.

She picked it up and swatted him in the head.

Desoto instantly went limp.

Two of his men were already down, including the little brother. A third – who’d been watching her battle with Desoto – widened his eyes in surprise. He drew his gun. Avery swatted his hand with the bat, spun with the momentum, and clocked him in the face. He crashed into a wall unit.

The last two men had overtaken Ramirez.

Avery swung the bat into the back of one man’s knees. He flipped up. She brought the steel down on his chest and kicked him hard in the face. The other man punched her in the jaw and followed with a screaming tackle onto the poker table.

They crashed down together.

The man was on top and rained down blows. Avery finally caught a wrist and rolled. He fell off and she was able to spin and trap his arm in a submission hold. Avery lay perpendicular to his body. Her legs were over his belly and his arm was straight and hyper-extended.

“Let go! Let go!” he cried out.

She lifted a leg and kicked him in the face until he passed out.

“Fuck you!” she yelled.

The room was silent. All five men, including Desoto, were out cold.

Ramirez groaned and got to his hands and knees.

“Jesus…” he whispered.

Avery spotted a gun on the floor. She grabbed it and pointed it at the basement door. No sooner had she aimed than Tito appeared.

“Don’t you lift that gun!” Avery howled. “You hear me!? Don’t you do it.”

Tito glanced at the gun in his hand.

“You lift that gun and I shoot.”

The scene in the room was impossible for Tito to believe; his mouth practically fell open when he saw Desoto.

“You do all this?” he asked seriously.

“Drop the gun!”

Tito aimed at her.

Avery fired two shots into his chest and sent him flying back into the staircase.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Outside the coffee shop, Avery held a bag of ice over her eye. Two nasty bruises were throbbing beneath it, and her cheek was swollen. It was also hard to breathe, which made her think she’d fractured a rib, and her neck was still sore and red from the tight squeeze of Desoto.

Despite the abuse, Avery felt good. Better than good. She’d successfully defended herself against a giant killer and five other men.

You did it, she thought.

She’d spent years learning to fight, countless years and hours when she was the only one in the dojo, just sparring with herself. She’d been in other fights before, but none against five men, and certainly none against someone as powerful as Desoto.

Ramirez sat on the curb. He’d been on the verge of collapse ever since the basement. Compared to Avery, he was in bad shape: face riddled with cuts and swollen spots and constant dizzy spells.

“You were an animal down there,” he muttered. “An animal…”

“Thanks?” she said.

Desoto’s diner was in the heart of A7, so Avery had felt obligated to call in Simms for backup. An ambulance was on the scene, along with numerous A7 cops to take Desoto and his men in for assault, weapons possession, and other small infractions. Tito’s body – wrapped in a black bag – was brought up first and loaded into the back of the emergency vehicle.

Simms appeared and shook his head.

“It’s a mess down there,” he said. “Thanks for the extra paperwork.”

“Would you have rather I called my own people?”

“No,” he admitted, “I guess not. We’ve got three different departments all trying to pin something on Desoto, so at the very least this can help shake the tree. I don’t know what you were thinking going into that place without backup, but nice work. How did you take all six of them on your own?”

“I had help,” Avery said with a nod to Ramirez.

Ramirez raised a hand in acknowledgment.

“What about the yacht murder?” Simms asked. “Any connection?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Two of his men robbed the store twice. Desoto was surprised about it, and pissed. If the two other clerks corroborate the story, I think they’re in the clear. They wanted money, not a dead store owner.”

Another cop appeared and waved at Simms.

Simms gave a light tap on Avery’s shoulder.

“You might want to get out of here,” he said. “They’re bringing them up now.”

“No,” Avery said. “I’d like to see him.”

Desoto was so large he had to dip out of the front door. Two cops were on either side of him, and one was at his back. Compared to everyone else, he looked like a giant. His men were brought up behind him. All of them were led toward a police van. As he drew close to Avery, Desoto paused and turned; none of the cops could make him move.

“Black,” he called.

“Yeah?” she said.

“You know that target you were talking about?”

“Yeah?”

“Click, click, boom,” he said with a wink.

He stared at her for another second before he allowed police to load him in the van.

Idle threats were part of the job. Avery had learned that a long time ago, but someone like Desoto was the real thing. Outwardly, she stood her ground and stared back at him until he was gone, but on the inside, she was barely keeping it together.

“I need a drink,” she said.

“No way,” Ramirez muttered. “I feel like shit.”

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Any bar you want. Your choice.”

He instantly perked up.

“Really?”

Avery had never offered to go out to a bar that Ramirez wanted. When he went out, he drank with the squad, while Avery chose quiet, low-key bars around her own neighborhood. Ever since they’d been a sort-of item, Avery had never once accompanied him out, or had a drink with anyone else in the department.

Ramirez stood up too fast, swooned, and caught himself.

“I got just the place,” he said.

CHAPTER NINE

“Fuckin’ A!” Finley roared in a drunken stupor. “You just took out six members of the Chelsea Death Squad, including Juan Desoto? I don’t believe it. I don’t fuckin’ believe it. Desoto is supposed to be a monster. Some people don’t even believe he exists.”

“She did it,” Ramirez swore. “I was right there, man. I’m telling you, she did it. Girl is like a kung-fu master or something. You should have seen her. As fast as lightning. I’d never seen anything like it. How did you learn to fight like that?”

“A lot of hours in the gym,” Avery said. “No life. No friends. Just me, a bag, and a lot of sweat and tears.”

“You’ve got to teach me some of those moves,” he pleaded.

“You were doing pretty well there yourself,” Avery said. “You saved me twice, if I remember correctly.”

“That’s true. I did do that,” he agreed so that everyone could hear.

They were in Joe’s Pub on Canal Street, a cop bar only a few blocks away from the A1 police station. At the large wooden table was everyone who’d been on Avery’s previous Homicide Squad: Finley, Ramirez, Thompson, and Jones, along with two other beat cops that were friends with Finley. Homicide supervisor for the A1, Dylan Connelly, was at another table not far away, having a drink with some men that worked in his unit. Every so often, he glanced up seemingly to catch Avery’s eye; she never noticed.

Thompson was the largest person in the entire the bar. Practically albino, he had extremely light-colored skin, with fine blond hair, full lips, and light-colored eyes. A drunken gaze turned sour at Avery.

“I could take you,” he declared.

“I could take her,” Finley snapped. “She’s a girl. Girls can’t fight. Everyone knows that. This must have been a fluke. Desoto was sick and his men were all suddenly blinded by chick-beauty. No way she beats them cold. No way.”

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:

How can you break the cycle?

How can you take advantage of each moment in life?

I have found the key

I can unlock the prize

Come all who dare

I defy you

The first body is set. More will come

Avery set it down, her entire body trembling.

More will come.

She knew, with sudden certainty, that he was right.