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.
Thompson drew his own gun.
"I'm with you."
"Not a chance," she snorted and pointed to the lawn. "You call it in. Wait for the others. I work better on my own."
The house was extremely cold, possibly through central heating as Avery hadn't noticed any air conditioners. She closed the door behind her and stepped inside.
Beyond the gray-blue foyer was a staircase to a second level. A gray cat with green eyes watched her from one of the steps. She turned right and into a small living room. Lots of plants lined the windowsills and hung from the ceiling.
Her heart was racing fast.
The gun was held low.
"Mr. Villasco?" she called. "Where are you?"
"In my office," he replied.
Slowly, she headed toward a small doorway at the back of the living room. After every step, she turned to make sure she wasn't followed. Only once in her life had she been shot. She took two bullets: one in the leg and one in the shoulder.
Gentry Villasco sat behind a large mahogany desk on the right. A green lamp was on one side of the desk, and paperwork was stacked on the other. His hands were hidden in his lap. A small green couch was on Avery's left, under a window.
"Mr. Villasco," she said, "please show me your hands."
"You work so hard," he sighed, "all your life."
"Mr. Villasco. I really need to see those hands."
"It's all for family. You know that, right? I did it for family."
"Please-your hands."
"It just seems right." He nodded. "I've already lived. What do I need to be here for anyway? My wife died of cancer two years ago. Did you know that? Terrible disease."
Avery inched closer toward the desk.
"Your hands!"
"Those girls," he said. "I knew, I knew. A horrible tragedy. It truly is. But who are we to judge? Everyone deserves to exist."
He quickly lifted a gun from his lap and placed it under his chin. The weapon had to be at least fifty years old, a six-shooter: silver with a white handle, like something that could be bought at a garage sale, or from an antique shop.
Avery raised a hand.
"Don't do it," she cried.
Villasco fired.
