Cause to Kill

“Good,” the mayor said. “Mike,” he added, “I’ll call Miles now. Expect to hear from him soon. If he doesn’t cooperate, get your warrant and do what you have to do. I want this case wrapped up by Monday.”

“Yes sir,” O’Malley said.

When the mayor hung-up, O’Malley addressed the group.

“OK,” he said, “here’s how we’ll do this. Avery, you’re lead. That shit you pulled the other day was way out of line, but since you cracked this thing, you should see it through. We’ll discuss your future later on. Connelly is your supervisor. You’ll have Thompson and whomever else we can pull together once we have all the information. Thompson.” he said and paused for a minute to find the right words, “I used to think you were this freakish Irish giant that would come into this office and make things happen. Sadly, none of that happened In fact, I think you’re lazier than Finley. Scratch that,” he instantly corrected, “I was wrong about Finley. He’s been working his ass off. Everyone makes mistakes. You, however, had better amaze me today. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Thompson swore.

Fifteen minutes later, the call they’d been waiting for arrived. O’Malley instantly touched speakerphone.

“O’Malley here,” he said.

A perky young voice filled the room.

“Hi there!” she said. “This is Laura Hunt. I’m the personal assistant to Mr. Miles Standish. I was told to call and provide whatever information you might need about Devante.”

O’Malley waved at Black.

“You’re on,” he said.

“This is Avery Black,” she said. “I’m not sure if you’ve been informed, but we have a serial killer on the loose with a possible connection to the Devante Accounting Firm.”

“Yes, Ms. Black, I’ve been fully briefed.”

“What we need is a name, someone that would have met with each of these college students and then either offered them jobs, or rerouted them to another department within the company where they were hired.”

“OK,” she said. “Can I ask which Devante firm we’re talking about?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we have offices in Boston, Chicago, and San Antonio.”

“The Boston office.”

“OK, hold on one second. Here it is. Timothy McGonagle is the president of Human Resources for the Boston office. I don’t think he deals directly with college recruiting, but you can either talk to him or someone on his staff,” and she offered his cell phone number, home number, and home address.

“How many people does McGonagle have under him?” Avery asked.

“There are twenty-eight other human resources workers.”

“If I have problems, can I call you directly?”

“Absolutely,” she said and gave Avery her number. “Mr. Standish wants to help in any way possible. He simply asks that you try and keep the Devante name out of the papers if possible. We wouldn’t want people to associate any crimes with our accounting firm.”

“Understood,” Avery said.

The phone call ended shortly after and O’Malley surveyed the group.

Avery wanted to see Timothy McGonagle for herself, up close and personal. Even if he wasn’t the person directly responsible for the crimes, it was becoming almost certain that he hired a killer, or he hired someone that had hired a killer. A quick background check revealed nothing on McGonagle: not even a parking ticket.

“All right,” he said, “get to it. I have a sweet sixteen to attend.”

* * *

McGonagle wasn’t far from the A1. He lived in the affluent neighborhood of Beacon Hill just north of the offices, close to Lederman Park. Connelly stayed behind to oversee two gang-related squads and to try and pull together a team for Avery if needed.

Thompson was assigned as her partner for the day. He kept his mouth shut for most of the ride and sat awkwardly in Avery’s passenger seat, his body scrunched in tight.

“Where you from?” Avery casually asked.

“Boston,” he mumbled.

“Where in Boston?”

“All over.”

“What made you want to be a cop?”

A frown appeared on his albino-like face, and his fat lips curled in a sneer.

“What is this? Twenty questions?” he barked.

Avery parked on Pinckney Street.

McGonagle lived in a large, brick-faced home with white shutters and a red door sunken into an outdoor foyer space. Thompson remained on the edge of the entrance and looked like he wanted to be anywhere but around Avery Black. His size and strange appearance, however, were a magnet for people that walked by; even if they were on the other side of the street, they crossed and stared closely into his face as they passed.

The bell rang and was quickly answered.

“Hello?” someone called.

Tim McGonagle was younger than Avery had expected, maybe in his mid-thirties, with black hair and bright green eyes that seemed to always be calculating figures. He was dressed in gray slacks and a pink button-down shirt and a green tie.

Five eight or five nine, she thought. Too tall. The height doesn’t match up.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked.

“Avery Black,” she said, “Boston Homicide.”

“Yes, I see. A celebrity officer in person.” He smiled.

He noticed Thompson before he turned back to Avery.

“What can I do for you?”

“Have you been following the serial killer case?” Avery asked.

“I have,” he said.