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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 couch beside her husband, without any indication of where Avery or Ramirez might sit.

      “What can I do for you?” she asked.

      A game show played on the TV. The sound was loud. Every so often, the husband cheered from his seat, settled down, and mumbled to himself.

      “Can you turn down the TV?” Ramirez asked.

      “Oh no,” she said. “John has to watch his Wheel of Fortune.”

      “This is about your daughter,” Avery added. “We really need to talk to you, and we’d like your full attention.”

      “Honey,” she said and touched her husband’s arm. “These two officers want to talk about Henrietta.”

      He shrugged and growled.

      Ramirez turned the television off.

      “Hey!” John yelled. “What are you doing!? Turn that back on!”

      He sounded drunk.

      A bottle of half-filled bourbon was beside him.

      Avery stood next to Ramirez and introduced them again.

      “Hi,” she said, “my name is Detective Black and this is my partner, Detective Ramirez. We have some very difficult news to share.”

      “I’ll tell you what’s difficult!” John snapped. “It’s difficult dealing with a bunch of cops when I’m in the middle of my television program. Turn on that goddamn TV!” he snapped and tried to get out of his seat, but he couldn’t seem to stand.

      “Your daughter is dead,” Ramirez said, and he squatted down to look him right in the eyes. “Do you understand? Your daughter is dead.”

      “What?” Mrs. Venemeer whispered.

      “Henrietta?” John mumbled and sat back.

      “I’m so sorry about this,” Avery said.

      “How?” the old woman mumbled. “I don’t…no. Not Henrietta.”

      “Tell us what you’re talking about!” John scoffed. “You can’t come in here and say our daughter is dead. What the hell do you mean?!”

      Ramirez took a seat.

      Denial, Avery thought. And anger.

      “She was found dead this morning,” Ramirez said, “and identified because of her position within the community. We’re not sure why it happened. Right now, we have a lot of questions. If you can, please just bear with us during this time and help answer some of them.”

      “How?” the mother cried. “How did it happen?”

      Avery pulled a seat beside Ramirez.

      “I’m afraid this is an ongoing investigation. We can’t talk about any specifics at this time. Right now, we just need to know anything that you might know to help us identify her killer. Did Henrietta have a boyfriend? A close friend you might know about? Someone that might have had a grudge against her?”

      “Are you sure it was Henrietta?” the mother wondered.

      “Henrietta had no enemies!” John shouted. “Everybody loved her. A goddamn saint she was. Came over once a week with groceries. Helped out homeless people. This can’t be right. This has got to be some kind of mistake.”

      Bargaining, Avery thought.

      “I assure you,” she said, “you’ll both be called later this week to make a positive identification of the body. I know this is a lot to absorb. You’ve just received some terrible news, but please, let’s stay focused on finding out who might have done this.”

      “No one!” John blared. “This is obviously a mistake. You have the wrong child. Henrietta had no enemies,” he declared. “Was she hit by a bus? Did she fall off a bridge? At least give us some idea what we’re dealing with here.”

      “She was killed,” Avery offered. “That’s all I can say.”

      “Killed,” the mother whispered.

      “Please,” Ramirez said. “Anything you can think of? Anything at all. Even if it seems insignificant to you, it might be a big help to us.”

      “No,” the mother replied. “She had no boyfriend. There’s a circle of girlfriends she keeps. They were over last year for Thanksgiving. None of them could have done something like this. You must be wrong.”

      She looked up with pleading eyes.

      “You must!”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Avery parked at an empty spot on the street between police cruisers and braced herself as she looked over at the A7 police department headquarters on Paris Street in East Boston. Outside the station was a media circus. A news conference had been called to discuss the case and a number of television vans and cameras and reporters barred the way, despite numerous officers trying to get them to move.

      “Your public awaits,” Ramirez noted.

      Ramirez seemed to want to be interviewed. His head was lifted high and he smiled at every reporter that turned his way. To his disappointment, none of them approached. Avery had her head down and walked as fast as possible to push her way into the station. She hated crowds. At one time in her life, when she was a lawyer, she’d loved when people knew her by name and flocked to her trials, but ever since she herself had been figuratively put on trial by the press, she’d learned to despise their attention.

      Instantly, the reporters converged.

      “Avery Black,” one of them said with a mic in her face. “Can you please tell us anything about the woman murdered at the marina today?”

      “Why are you on the case, Detective Black?” yelled another. “This is the A7. Were you transferred to this department?”

      “How do you feel about the mayor’s new Stop Crime campaign?”

      “Are you and Howard Randall

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