Cause to Run

“That was a dead end,” Avery said. “The victim saw her parents once a week to bring groceries and cook dinner. No boyfriend. No other close relatives in Boston. She does, however, have a close circle of friends that we’ll have to speak with. The parents themselves aren’t suspect. They could barely get off the couch. We would have begun researching the friends, but I wasn’t sure about protocol,” she said with a look to O’Malley.

“Thanks for that,” Simms said. “Understood. I think after this meeting, you’ll be in charge, Detective Black, but that’s not my call. Let me tell you what my team discovered so far. We checked her phone records and email addresses. Nothing unusual there. Cameras in the building were disabled and no other lenses had sight on the building itself. However, we did find something at Venemeer’s bookstore. It was open today. She has two full-time workers. They were unaware of the victim’s death and genuinely shocked. Neither of them seemed like viable suspects, but both of them mentioned that the store has recently come under fire from a local gang known as the Chelsea Death Squad. The name comes from their main hangout on Chelsea Street. I spoke with our gang unit and learned they’re a relatively new Latino gang loosely affiliated with a bunch of other cartels. Their leader is Juan Desoto.”

Avery had heard of Desoto from her gang days during her rookie years. He might be a small player in a new squad, but he’d been a big-time enforcer for a number of established gangs throughout Boston for years.

Why would a mob hitman with his own squad want to kill a local bookstore owner and then deposit the body in high-profile fashion on a yacht? she wondered.

“Sounds like you’ve got a great lead,” Holt gushed. “It’s distressing that we have to hand the reins over to a department on the other side of the channel. Sadly, however, that’s part of life. Isn’t it, Captain O’Malley? Compromise, yes?” He smiled.

“That’s right,” O’Malley reluctantly answered.

Simms sat taller.

“Juan Desoto would definitely be my number one suspect. If this was my case,” he stressed, “I’d try and visit with him first.”

The slight jab bothered Avery.

Do I really need this? she thought. Although she was utterly intrigued by the case, the blurry boundary lines between who handled what bothered her. Do I have to follow his lead? Is he my supervisor now? Or can I do what I want?

O’Malley seemed to read her mind.

“I think we’re finished here. Right, Will?” he said before speaking exclusively to Avery and Ramirez. “After this, you two are in charge unless you need to refer back to Detective Simms over information we’ve just covered. Copies of the files are being made for you right now. They’ll be sent over to the A1. So,” he sighed and stood up, “unless there are any other questions, get started. I have a department to run.”

*

The tension at the A7 kept Avery on edge until they were out of the building, past the news reporters, and back in her car.

“That went well,” Ramirez cheered. “You do realize what just happened in there?” he asked. “You were just handed the biggest case A7 has probably had in years, and all because you’re Avery Black.”

Avery wordlessly nodded.

Being in charge came with a high price tag. She was able to do things her own way, but if problems arose they were on her head alone. Besides, she had a feeling that it wasn’t going to be the last time she heard from the A7. Feels like I have two bosses now, she inwardly groaned.

“What’s our next move?” Ramirez asked.

“Let’s clean the slate with A7 and visit Desoto. Not sure what we’ll find, but if his gang was harassing a bookstore owner, I’d like to know why.”

Ramirez whistled.

“How do you know where to find him?”

“Everyone knows where to find him. He owns a small coffee shop on Chelsea Street, right by the expressway and the park.”

“You think he’s our guy?”

“Killing is nothing new to Desoto.” Avery shrugged. “Not sure if this crime scene fits his MO, but he might know something. He’s a legend throughout Boston. From what I understand, he’s done jobs for the blacks, Irish, Italians, Hispanics, you name it. When I was a rookie they called him the Ghost Killer. For years, no one even believed he existed. Gang Unit had him pegged for jobs as far as New York City. No one could prove a thing. He’s owned that coffee shop for as long as I’ve heard his name.”

“You ever meet him?”

“No.”

“Know what he looks like?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I saw a photo of him once. Light-skinned and really, really big. I think his teeth were sharpened too.”

He turned to her and smiled, but beneath that smile she could sense the same panic and rush of adrenaline she was starting to feel herself. They were heading into the lion’s den.

“This should be interesting,” he said.

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.