Lethal Confessions (36 page)

Amy tossed him a quick grin, dodging past a line of cars on the freeway ramp as they pulled over to let her car through. “We’ll have to bring her back to HQ to work with Orosco.” Angel Orosco was their forensic artist. “Get hold of him, Poushinsky. If he’s already gone home, tell him to get his ass in by seven at the latest. I don’t give a damn what he’s doing.”

“Sure, but I’ll put it a little more politely than that,” Poushinsky said.

“I’m feeling like there’s no time to even be polite,” Amy said, though she acknowledged that her edges were increasingly rough. “Not with what we’re facing.”

“I’m with you on that,” Beckett said, leaning forward until he was practically talking in her ear. “But I still think it makes no sense for the killer to have risked buying the flowers in a little shop. Why would he get them where he was likely to be remembered?”

“He probably didn’t expect to be seen as he approached the house,” Amy said. “Or, at least not well enough to be identified. It was late and dark. If Kyle Harrington hadn’t been on the spot and been such an observant kid, he’d have been right.” She turned her head for a quick look over her shoulder at Beckett, who was still close enough that she could catch a faint scent of after shave or something. “Besides, a crappy bunch of supermarket flowers isn’t quite the ticket to get a woman to open her door to you.”

Beckett gave her a lopsided grin. “Hey, I’ve seen some pretty nice stuff at Publix.”

“Me, too,” Poushinsky chimed in.

Amy rolled her eyes. “Men. Pathetic.”

As Poushinsky punched numbers into his cell phone, Amy fought her rising hopes. They might get a useful description out of this lead, though there was a better than even chance that the killer would have disguised himself. Still, if Jodie Jamison had been sharp and had a good memory, her description would enable Orosco to produce a composite that would give them something solid to go on. Something that might even confirm or eliminate Brett Kozak as a prime suspect. She hoped like hell it would be the former.

The trip up to Riviera Beach took barely ten minutes. Jodie’s Floral Creations occupied a small storefront in a relatively new strip mall. A Chinese food takeout flanked it on one side, with one of the ubiquitous nail salons on the other. She screeched the car to a stop directly in front of the shop, leaving her flashers on. The owner, clearly expecting them, didn’t blink when Amy barged in followed by two very large men.

Jodie Jamison could have been anywhere between forty and fifty. Streaks of gray colored her dark brown, shoulder-length hair, but her trim figure and lively eyes gave her a relatively youthful appearance. Amy asked her to turn the sign in the front door to indicate the store was closed.

She waited for Jodie to return to the counter before she handed her Brett Kozak’s hospital ID card. “Ms. Jamison, could this be the man you mentioned to Detective Poushinsky?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the small picture for a good thirty seconds. “Possibly,” she finally said, “but I’m really not sure if it’s the same man.” She handed the card back. “I’m sorry.”

Amy bit back a curse. “He could have changed his appearance to some degree, ma’am. Could you take another long look, please?”

Jamison nodded. “I understand.” She held her hand out, and Amy gave her back the card.

A couple of moments later, Jodie said, “No, I can’t be sure. The man who was here yesterday wore sunglasses that he didn’t take off, and he had a few days’ growth of beard so he looked quite different from this man. If I could have seen his eyes, or seen what he looked like clean-shaven, like this fellow...”

There was no point in belaboring it. Orosco would capture everything the florist had to offer in his composite. “The forensic artist will be able to give you an approximation of how the man would look clean-shaven and without sunglasses.” Amy laid her palms flat on the counter and leaned into it. “What time did he come into the store?”

“A few minutes before closing. About ten to eight, I suppose. I remember I was a little surprised to see someone come in that late. I usually don’t do much business after seven, and rarely get a last minute caller. Sometimes I wonder why I bother to stay open that extra hour.”

“Do you remember the particular flowers he bought?”

Jamison smiled, as if Amy had asked a dumb question. “Of course. He chose a bouquet I’d made up that afternoon. One of my favorites—blue iris and burgundy asters, orange Asiatic lilies, and some Belladonna delphiniums. Very colorful. Delightful, really.”

“Sounds impressive,” Amy said. Truth be told, she’d be hard pressed to recognize most of those flowers without a label attached. “Like these?” She held up a photo the Crime Scene Unit had taken of the flowers and vase they’d found at Megan O’Neill’s earlier in the afternoon.

“Yes,” the florist confirmed. “Those certainly look like mine. I venture to say they
are
the ones I sold that man yesterday.”

Amy smiled. “That’s very helpful. I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re going to need you to come with us to the Sheriff’s Office to work with our forensic artist.”

“Well, I didn’t expect I’d have to do
that,
” the woman said, a little flustered. “I don’t close until eight, and I can’t call my assistant to relieve me. She’s not available tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” Amy said, trying to be patient. “But you’ll have to close early. This man has killed at least four young women, including one last night. We don’t have a single minute to waste if we’re going to stop him from killing again.”

Jodie swallowed, looking ill. “Well, since you put it that way.” She shook her head. “It’s incredible, isn’t it? He seemed to be a nice young man, simply buying a quality bouquet for his girlfriend. To think there was a cold-blooded murderer standing right in front of me at that moment...”

“You told me that the man wore a tee shirt and baseball cap?” Poushinsky said, making what she’d told him on the phone into a question.

“Yes. A Cardinals shirt and hat.”

“Palm Beach Cardinals,” Beckett said. “Right?”

“Yes. We chatted a little about the Cardinals. The local ones, not St. Louis,” the florist replied. “My husband is a big baseball fan. Sometimes, I go to games with him when my assistant is able to take care of the shop. That young man certainly knew a lot about the team.”

“Do you recall how he paid for the flowers, ma’am?” Poushinsky asked.

“Cash.”

Of course he wouldn’t be stupid enough to use a credit card. “Now, I want you to tell us everything you can remember about what the man looked like and how he spoke,” Amy said. “Don’t leave out anything, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”

“I’ve been wracking my brain ever since you called,” Jamison said, reaching behind her for a piece of multi-colored notepaper. “I wrote down everything I could remember.” She peered down at her notes. “He was about twenty-five or so. Not very tall, but very well-built. I remember the bulge of his biceps stretching the arms of that tee shirt, like a football player or even a bodybuilder.”

“About how tall was he, ma’am?” Poushinsky asked.

“Taller than you,” she said, directing her gaze toward Amy. Then she swung her eyes toward Beckett. “But certainly nothing like you,” she chuckled. “You’re a long drink of water, aren’t you?”

Focus, lady.
“Can you be any more specific?” Amy prompted.

“Well, he wasn’t much taller than me, so, about five-eight, I suppose.”

“Hair and eye color?”

“He had his cap on, but his hair was definitely black. As I said, he kept his sunglasses on, so I couldn’t see his eyes. I thought that was a little strange, but some people do that.”

“Any facial hair, or scars, or other distinguishing marks” Poushinsky asked as he continued to make notes.

“As I said, he had heavy stubble on his cheeks and chin. I didn’t see any scars, but he had some tattoos.”

“On his arms?”

Jamison nodded. “One was a valentine, but with a knife through it instead of an arrow. That jarred me a little, I have to say. I’m sure that’s why I remember it so well.”

Amy could believe it. The killer obviously hated women.

“Did you see his vehicle, ma’am?” Beckett asked in his going-back-to-Louisiana voice.

The florist got a dreamy look on her face as she gazed at him. Apparently no woman was immune to Beckett. “I’m afraid not,” she said.

That was enough for now. Jamison would be able to give Orosco lots to work with. By later that evening, they’d have a reasonable likeness of the killer—one that could be released to the media immediately.

Leaning against the counter—probably touching the same surfaces the killer had touched—Amy could practically feel the malevolent presence of Jodie Jamison’s “nice young man.” They were getting closer to the killer, but she wouldn’t be able to take a relaxed breath until she had the bastard staring down the barrel of her gun.

Wednesday, August 4

7:45 p.m.

After Angel Orosco had worked some quick magic, Jodie Jamison had pronounced his composites to be near-perfect matches with her memory. In one, the killer wore sunglasses and had heavy stubble. In the other, the sunglasses were gone and he was clean-shaven. For that one, Orosco had guessed at his eye shape and size, but he had a proven talent for judging correctly based on the subject’s facial bones.

While that was going on, Amy had arranged for Media Relations to stand by to release the forensic composite to the newspapers and TV outlets as soon as Cramer gave the go-ahead. The commander had some kind of dreary civic event at the south end of the county, but had jumped at the chance to get out of it when Amy reached him on his cell.

She plunked photocopies of the composite in front of Poushinsky and Beckett. Both had been hanging out around her desk.

Poushinsky looked doubtful. “Not nearly a perfect match with Kozak. Maybe close enough, though.”

Amy looked at Kozak’s ID card again, then at the clean-shaven composite, then back again. The shape of the face was very similar, but the man in the composite had a stronger jaw and a slightly flatter nose. The contrasts in the killer’s face intrigued her. Orosco had drawn the eyes deep-set, almost hooded, and wary. Maybe even predatory. But the full lips conveyed a certain gentleness, even though Amy had refused to let Orosco composite the wide smile Jodie Jamison had said he wore during most of his brief time in the store. There was no way the Sheriff’s Office would release a composite of a grinning serial killer.

In the clean-shaven version, the mouth gave the man an almost boyish look. And even with the dangerous eyes, the killer might look right at home in a country church. Amy could visualize him as the kind of young man who could persuade a suspicious woman to open her door.

“He looks early twenties, especially minus the stubble,” Amy finally said.

Beckett remained silent, staring at both compositees. He furrowed his brow, and stroked the stubble on his own jaw.

Amy waved a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Beckett?”

His head snapped up. “I feel like I’ve seen this guy myself somewhere. There’s definitely something familiar about him, but it’s not coming to me. Not yet, anyway.”

“You probably saw him at a ballpark,” Poushinsky offered.

Duh
. Amy knew Poushinsky had many talents. Stating the obvious was one of them.

Beckett gave him a wry smile. “Yeah, probably. But I sign a hell of a lot of autographs, too. Guys come up to me all the time, on the golf course, on the street—everywhere. I’m sure I’ve seen this face some place.”

“I’ll get you a copy of the composite,” Amy said. “Keep it with you and maybe it’ll help jog your memory.”

Poushinsky draped his lean body against her partition. “You know what I’ve been thinking about? Why the guy would wear the frigging team shirt and cap. Why would he wear something so easily recognizable?”

“Obviously, he wanted to fool Megan O’Neill,” Beckett answered. “Make her think he was with her husband’s team. But, you’re right, Pushy. Why wouldn’t he have worn something nondescript to get the flowers, then changed into the team gear before he went to Megan’s?” He gazed straight at Amy. “Maybe he’s getting careless?”

Possibly, or he was finishing up his spree, at least in this part of the world. Maybe he was heading somewhere else. Maybe even out of the country. He probably sensed they were closing in and wanted to get away while he could. Part of her desperately wanted that to be true, because she didn’t know if she could stand seeing another young woman brutalized, murdered, and dumped like a bag of trash.

But the other part wanted him right here so she could get her hands on him.

It wasn’t just about satisfying her thirst for justice. It was also because she knew in her head and in her gut that if the killer got away from them here, he’d strike again somewhere else. And strike again and again until he was dead or behind bars. Just like Wayne Duguid. After Ariane, he’d murdered two more women before making the mistake that finally got him caught.

Serial killers didn’t just stop cold. They ran and they paused. But they never stopped.

“There’s one thing we’ve been overlooking,” Beckett continued when she didn’t respond. He winced as he flexed his bad leg.

Amy winced in sympathy. The man must be in pain all the time, but he never complained. “What?”

“Kozak’s still our best bet. I agree with that. But Jodie’s description of her guy throws doubt on him, right?”

Amy narrowed her eyes. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, we’ve pretty much eliminated all the Cardinals and Hammerheads.”

He knew that all their alibis had been checked. “So?” she said impatiently.

“I’ve been thinking about where the killer got his Cardinals gear. Chances are pretty good that it was at the team store at Roger Dean. Either that or he got it over the Internet. Whichever it was, he’s probably left a trail.”

Amy sucked in a surprised breath.

“Wish I’d thought of that,” Poushinsky muttered.

Beckett smiled as he fished for his car keys. “I’m going to take a composite up to the park. Maybe one of the clerks at the stadium store saw our guy.”