her job, but catching serial killers and avenging the dead was what she craved.
“We have a lot of other open cases,” she said. “And a trial.”
“I can give everything to Thompson and Jones. You can oversee their work. If you take this on, this is priority number one.”
Avery turned to Ramirez.
“You in?”
“I’m in.” He nodded in earnest.
“We’ll do it,” she said.
“Good.” O’Malley sighed. “You’re on the case. Captain Holt and his men will deal with the body and the apartment. You’ll have full access to the files and their full cooperation throughout this investigation. Will, who should they go to if they need information?”
“Detective Simms,” he said.
“Simms is the lead detective you saw this morning,” O’Malley relayed, “blond hair, dark eyes, tough all over. The boat and apartment are all being handled by the A7. Simms will contact you directly with any leads on this end. Maybe you should talk with the family for now. See what you can uncover. If you’re right, and this is personal, they may be involved or have some information that can help.”
“We’re on it,” Avery said.
A quick call to Detective Simms and Avery learned that the victim’s parents lived just a bit further north, outside of Boston in the town of Chelsea.
Breaking the news to families was Avery’s second-most loathed part of the job. Although she had a way with people, there was a moment, right after they learned about a death of a loved one, that complex emotions took hold. Psychiatrists called it the five stages of grieving, but Avery thought of it as slow torture. First, there was denial. Friends and relatives wanted to know everything about the body – information that would only make them grieve more, and no matter how much Avery offered, it was always impossible for the loved ones to imagine. Second came anger: at the police, at the world, at everyone. Bargaining came next. “Are you sure they’re dead? Maybe they’re still alive.” These stages could happen all at once, or they could take years, or both. The last two stages usually happened when Avery was somewhere else: depression and acceptance.
“I have to say,” Ramirez mused, “I don’t like finding dead bodies, but this does free us up to work on this case. No more trial and no more paperwork. Feels good, right? We get to do what we want to do and not have to be bogged down in red tape.”
He leaned over to kiss her cheek.
Avery pulled away.
“Not now,” she said.
“No problem,” he replied with his hands up. “I just thought, you know…that we were a thing now.”
“Look,” she said and had to really think about her next words. “I like you. I really do, but this is all happening too fast.”
“Too fast?” he complained. “We’ve only kissed once in two months!”
“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “Sorry. What I’m trying to say is, I don’t know if I’m ready for a full-blown relationship. We’re partners. We see each other every week. I love all the flirtation and seeing you in the morning. I just don’t know if I’m ready to move further.”
“Whoa,” he said.
“Dan – ”
“No, no.” He raised a hand. “It’s OK. Really. I think I expected that.”
“I’m not saying I want this to end,” Avery reassured him.
“What is this?” he asked. “I mean, I don’t even know! When we’re working, you’re all business, and when I try to see you after work, it’s almost impossible. You were more loving towards me when you were in the hospital than in real life.”
“That’s not true,” she said, but a part of her realized he was right.
“I like you, Avery,” he said. “I like you a lot. If you need time, I’m OK with that. I just want to make sure you actually have some feelings for me. Because if you don’t, I don’t want to waste your time, or mine.”
“I do,” she said and glanced at him for a quick second. “Really.”
“OK,” he said. “Cool.”
Avery kept driving, focusing on the road and on the changing neighborhood, forcing herself to snap back into work mode.
Henrietta Venemeer’s parents lived in an apartment complex just past the cemetery on Central Avenue. From Detective Simms, Avery had learned they were both retired and would most likely be found at home. She hadn’t called in advance. A hard lesson she’d learned early on was that a warning call could alert a possible killer.
At the building, Avery parked and they both walked up to the front door.
Ramirez rang the buzzer.
A long pause ensued before an elderly female answered.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“Mrs. Venemeer, this is Detective Ramirez with the A1 police division. I’m here with my partner, Detective Black. Can we please come up and speak with you?”
“Who?”
Avery leaned forward.
“Police,” she snapped. “Please unlock the front door.”
The door buzzed open.
Avery smiled at Ramirez.
“That’s how you do it,” she said.
“You never cease to amaze me, Detective Black.”
The Venemeers lived on the fifth floor. By the time Avery and Ramirez exited the elevator, they could see an elderly woman peeking out from behind a locked door.
Avery took lead.
“Hi, Mrs. Venemeer,” she said in her softest and clearest voice. “I’m Detective Black and this is my partner, Detective Ramirez.” They both flashed their badges. “Can we come in?”
Mrs. Venemeer had a tangle of wiry hair just like her daughter, only hers was white. She wore thick black glasses and had on a white nightgown.
“What’s this all about?” she worried.
“I think this would be easier if we could talk inside,” Avery said.
“All right,” she mumbled and let them in.
The entire apartment smelled like mothballs and old age. Ramirez made a face and jokingly waved at his nose the moment they entered. Avery hit him in the arm.
A television blared from the living room. On the couch was a large man that Avery assumed was Mr. Venemeer. He was dressed only in red boxers and a T-shirt that he probably wore to bed, and he seemed to have no awareness of them at all.
Oddly, Mrs. Venemeer sat down on the
