Cause to Kill

“Are you aware that three of the victims were recently hired by your firm?”

“No,” he said, “my god, that’s awful.”

‘What exactly do you do at Devante?”

He waved inside.

“Would you like to sit down?”

“No, thank you.”

A female voice called out from somewhere deep in the home.

“Timmy? Who is it?”

“Hold on one second, Peg,” he called. “I’m the president of the Devante Human Resources Department for the Boston Division,” he said to Avery. “My main responsibilities are to hire and manage the staff. I oversee problems within the company, any major employee/employer disputes, things of that nature. The only resumes I see are for high-level staff we may need, such as a CEO position or a head auditor.”

“Who recruits for the colleges?”

“One of my employees. His name is Gentry Villasco, but honestly, I can’t imagine him doing anything like this. He’s an administrative director. He heads up a team of four. They oversee colleges, college resumes, and they do scouting on campuses.”

“If a college student wanted a position at your firm, they’d have to go through him?”

“That’s right. His team might sift through applicants and weed out the best resumes, but eventually they’d go to him. If Gentry liked what he saw, he would then pass them onto the appropriate department where a position had opened.”

“Can you tell me anything about him? Is he single? Married? What does he like to do on weekends? Does he have friends?”

Timothy laughed.

“Gentry is definitely not a killer,” he said. “He’s a loner, that’s for sure, a little older than I am. Maybe in his fifties? Has a house out in West Somerville. Commutes to work. He’s a people-person but he keeps to himself, if you know what I mean? He’s worked at Devante longer than I have, about fifteen years.”

Avery gave him the hard stare.

“Are you sure you have no knowledge of the three victims in question? Let me tell you their names again, in case you forgot: Cindy Jenkins, Tabitha Mitchell, and the last one hasn’t hit the papers yet. Molly Green.”

“I’ve never heard of any of them,” he said and then instantly corrected himself. “Well, I’ve heard of the first two, but not within the company. I read the papers. I’m familiar with the case,” and he stood taller and held her gaze.

“Are you going to be home all day?” Avery asked.

“Well, my family and I are planning on going to church in a little while. We’re just having breakfast with the kids.”

He seemed both honest and genuinely disturbed by the connection to Devante. A family man, Avery thought. She stepped back and tried to imagine a killer with a wife and family.

“Here’s my card,” she said. “Please call me if you can think of anything else.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear about all this.”

Thompson was leaning on the brick facade with his foot kicked up, oblivious to everything except the sky.

Avery slapped him in the chest as she walked past.

“Hey!” he complained.

“Next time you want to act like a doorstop,” she said, “go back to the office.”

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

A quick conversation with Laura Hunt and Avery was in possession of the cell phone number and address of Gentry Villasco, as well as the names, addresses, and contact information for everyone on his team, just in case Villasco turned out to be a dead end.

Of the four people who worked for Gentry, two were women and two were men. The women lived in Chelsea and Boston, respectively, both well outside of Avery’s general range of the killer’s home. The first man commuted from South Boston, also outside the range. The last one lived in Watertown: Edwin Pesh. Watertown was one of Avery’s hotspots. She circled his name and hopped in the car. As she drove, Thompson plugged in all the names into the database for a background check. One of the girls had ten outstanding parking tickets. The man from South Boston had been arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct a year earlier. No records were found on the other two.

Gentry Villasco lived on a wide-open street in Somerville. His house was a very small, narrow, two-level Tudor home painted white with brown trim and a brown roof. Multiple trees shaded his driveway. A white Honda Civic was parked before a closed garage.

Avery and Thompson were in the middle of a heated debate.

“I’m just saying, try to look like you care,” Avery sighed.

“I do care,” he said.

“Look around,” she said. “If I’m talking to a suspect, observe the premises, put on a smile, pretend to take notes. Whatever. Don’t just stare at the sky.”

“I’ve been a cop a lot longer than you have.”

“Really? That’s hard to believe. When was the last time you were promoted?”

Thompson pinched his lips in anger and tried to reposition himself in the tiny space of the BMW passenger seat.

When they exited the car and walked up to the front door, Avery was slightly ahead, with the hulking Thompson behind her like a bodyguard ready to devour any opposition.

The doorbell rang.

A gracious, humble man appeared to greet them. He reminded Avery of a monk, or of some saintly being. Tan and balding on the top with cropped white hair on the sides, he had eyes that were small and squinted. Everything about him was small – his chin, his hands and shoulders. He wore tan slacks and a black sweater over a T-shirt, even though it was at least eighty-five degrees outside.

He’s the right build, Avery thought. A little small, but if he was wearing a disguise, he could have also been he wearing heights.

“Hello,” Villasco said in the sweetest, most gentle voice imaginable. “Would you like to come in?”

Surprised, Avery said, “Do you know why we’re here?”

“Yes,’ he nodded with a sad frown, “I think I do.”

He turned and headed back inside

“Mr. Villasco, where are you going?” Avery called. “Mr. Villasco, can you please just – excuse me, sir? I need to see.”

She and Thompson shared a look.

‘Call it in,” she said and pulled her gun.