Cause to Kill. Blake Pierce

were waved up.

      On the tenth floor, they turned left and walked down a long hallway. Carpets were tan brown swirls. Doors were painted glossy white.

      Ramirez knocked on Apartment 10E.

      “George,” he said, “you around?”

      After a brief silence, someone said: “Get lost.”

      “Police,” Avery interrupted and banged on the door. “Open up.”

      Silence again, then ruffling and then more silence.

      “Come on,” Avery called. “We don’t have all day. We just want to ask you a few questions.”

      “You got a warrant?”

      Ramirez raised his brows.

      “Kid knows his stuff. Must be ivy educated.”

      “We can have a warrant in about an hour,” Avery called out, “but if you make me leave and jump through hoops, I’m going to be pissed. I already feel like shit, today. You don’t want to see me pissed off, too. We just want to talk about Cindy Jenkins. We heard you knew her. Open the door and I’ll be your best friend.”

      The bolt unlocked.

      “You really do have a way with people,” Ramirez realized.

      George appeared in a tank top and sweatpants, extremely muscular and toned. He was about 5’6”, the same height Avery associated with the killer based on Cindy’s records. Despite the look of someone that was either on drugs or who hadn’t slept in days, a fearlessness burned in his stare. Avery wondered if he’d been bullied for years and had finally decided to strike back.

      “What do you want?” he said.

      “Can we come in?” she asked.

      “No, we can do this right here.”

      Ramirez put his foot inside the room.

      “Actually,” he said, “we’d rather come in.”

      George looked from Avery to Ramirez – to the foot holding the door open. Resolved, he shrugged and backed away.

      “Come on in,” he said. “I have nothing to hide.”

      The room was large for a double occupancy, with a living space, terrace, two beds on opposite sides of the room, and a kitchen area. One bed was neatly made and piled with clothing and electronic equipment; the other one was a mess.

      George sat on the messy bed. Hands beside him, he gripped the mattress. He appeared ready to lurch forward at any moment.

      Ramirez stood by the terrace window and admired the view.

      “This is some place,” he said. “Only a studio, but grand. Look at this view. Wow. You must love looking out at the river.”

      “Let’s get this over with,” George said.

      Avery pulled a chair and sat down facing George.

      “We’re looking into the murder of Cindy Jenkins,” she said. “We thought you might be able to help us, seeing as you were one of the last people to see her alive.”

      “A lot of people saw her alive.”

      The words were meant to sound tough, but there was pain in his eyes.

      “We were under the impression you liked her.”

      “I loved her,” he said. “What does that matter? She’s gone now. No one can help me.”

      Ramirez and Avery shared a look.