Large glass windows buttressed both sides of the glass door of Art for Life Studios. Avery could see a narrow, packed gallery space inside with all kinds of modern art: sculptures, paintings, drawings, and retro collages. Further back, the room opened up into a much larger area, with a circle of easels for what she assumed was the art class meeting area.
Her phone rang.
"Black," she answered.
"Who's your boy?" Finley said. "I just got a call back from one of Tabitha's friends. The victim definitely took an art class at that studio."
"I already figured it out. Didn't you notice all the art when you were in her dorm?"
"What art?"
"In her room."
"That wasn't art." Finley blanched. "That was garbage. I thought she bought it at a yard sale. Look, Black, don't bust my balls. I just got you a good lead."
"I'm here now," she said. "The studio is closed."
"I'm at a bar," he replied. "My shift ended two hours ago. I'd invite you down here, but I don't think they let lesbians in this place."
"I'm not a lesbian," she said.
"Really? Could have fooled me."
"You're a disgusting human being, you know that, Finley?"
"Nah, nah," he said, "I'm a good guy. Just my upbringing. It was all messed up. I'll do better next time. I promise. You're cool, even if you're a lesbian. Seriously. I got your back. See you in the morning. I gotta go get fucked up."
Too hyped up on adrenaline to relax or sleep, Avery headed home to investigate Art for Life in the comfort of her living room. On the way, she ordered takeout Chinese.
The apartment was kept dim. A single lamp was turned on by the couch. She sat at the table in the living room and chowed down on food while she worked.
Art for Life had been in business for over five years. The owner was a man named Wilson Kyle, a former artist and businessman who also owned a restaurant near the studio and two buildings near the area. A quick search on her police database turned up nothing on Kyle.
Two people were employed at his studio: a full-time salesman named John Lang and a part-time female employee who came in on the weekends. Kyle himself taught the art classes on Wednesday and Thursday nights, but Lang taught two classes on alternate Saturdays.
Lang had a record.
A registered sex offender, with two incidents filed from seven years ago. One was from a boy he apparently babysat, and the other was from a girl who had lived on his block. Both sets of parents said their children had been molested. Lang pleaded not guilty but then flipped his plea to avoid a trial and possible jail time. He was given five years probation, mandatory counseling for a year, and a stigma that would remain with him for life.
According to the police files, his height and weight matched the estimates for the killer.
Avery sat back.
It was close to midnight. She was wide awake and ready to bang down the door of John Lang. This could be the guy, she thought.
High from the possibility of catching the killer, Avery wanted to share the good news with someone. Strangely, Ray Henley came to mind, but the thought of an awkward, late-night call with someone she'd only recently met was too daunting to face. Finley was out of the question, and the captain had given specific orders about disturbing him at home.
She thought about calling her daughter.
The last time they'd spoken was months earlier, and it had not gone well.
Avery sent her an email instead. "Hey," she wrote, "been thinking about you a lot lately. Would love to talk in person. How about lunch this weekend. Maybe Saturday? Our usual place? Noon? Let me know. I love you. Mom."
Still eager to talk to someone, she dialed the hospital.
The phone rang numerous times before a sleepy voice picked up.
"Hello?"
"Ramirez," she said, "how you doing?"
"Damn, Black. What time is it?"
"Almost one."
"This better be good," he mumbled, "I was in the middle of a great dream. I was in a boat on a clear blue ocean, and this mermaid comes up to me and we start making out."
"Wow," she said, but she wasn't in the mood to listen to him describe his sex dreams.
"I've got a good lead," she went on, "Art for Life. Guy that works there is named John Lang. Has a sheet. Both girls took classes there. Could be our guy."
"I thought Finley had already solved your case," Ramirez joked. "He said he took down a genuine serial killer yesterday."
"Finley wouldn't know a serial killer from a box of cereal."
Ramirez laughed.
"He's crazy, right? Heard about the old man with the dead bodies in his basement. Wild shit. I guess some people. You just never know."
"How are you feeling?"
"Better, better. I really just want to get the hell out of here and back to work."
"I know, but you need to rest."
"Yeah, yeah, and it's not that bad really," he said. "I got a private room, nice bed, paid leave, decent food. You're the one I'm worried about. I mean, Finley? Cap must be out for you."
"I don't know, I'm coming around. Take away the bigotry and racism and that foul mouth of his, and he's actually not that bad. I just wish I could understand him."
A laugh was instantly cut short.
"Ah man, that hurt," Ramirez groaned. "Gotta be careful. Stitches are killing me. Yeah, he's hardcore," he said. "Irish from the south side. He used to be a D-Boy. Did you know that? They nearly killed him when he switched sides. You see all his tats? He's got a full body."
"No. I haven't seen his full-body tats yet."
Ramirez snorted.
"Well, look, Avery, thanks for the call. I feel a little tired so I'm going to go. Good luck with this new lead. I'll be praying for you."
Avery grabbed a beer and moved out onto the balcony. Fast-moving clouds were scattered across a moonlit sky.
She took a long swig.
I got you, she thought.
