Lethal Confessions (37 page)

“It’s worth a shot,” Amy acknowledged.

He looked at her, a silent challenge in his gaze. “You coming?”

Even though she didn’t like the idea of spending any more time than necessary with Beckett, she didn’t hesitate. His idea could actually lead them somewhere. “Oh, yeah. Poushinsky?”

Her partner shook his head. “We don’t need to triple-team the poor clerks, do we? I’ll hold the fort here.”

Amy suspected an ulterior motive, but let it slide. Not that she could blame Poushinsky, given what they were about to face.

As she and Beckett headed out HQ’s main doors, she glanced up at him. “Brace yourself for the vultures.”

Though the crowd of reporters and cameramen had thinned, they were quickly surrounded and a sea of hands shoved microphones at her. As calmly as she could, Amy told them that the Sheriff’s Office would release a police artist’s composite of a suspect within the next hour. When one reporter pushed up against her, Beckett looked pissed, ready to manhandle him away from her. She gave him a slight shake of her head as the reporters poured out a flood of questions.

“Are you sure the man in the composite is the baseball killer?”

“Who gave you the information for the composite?”

“Do you believe the killer is still in the area?”

“One at a time, please,” Amy said, holding up her hands. She looked straight into the nearest camera. “All I can say at this time is that we have reason to believe the man in the composite is responsible for at least the most recent murder—that of Megan O’Neill. We have potential witnesses, but we won’t be releasing their names.”

“So more than one person has seen the killer?”

Amy nodded. “We believe that to be the case.”

A reporter she didn’t recognize spoke up. “Devon Marte with Channel 37 News. Detective Robitaille, your twin sister was the victim of a serial murderer when you were a teenager. How much more motivation does that give you to catch this killer?”

The question sliced like a blade into her gut. Ariane’s death had happened so long ago, and she’d been hoping the media wouldn’t go there. This was the last fucking thing she needed.

She stared the woman down. “Believe me, I have all the motivation I need to catch this killer and every other murderer in this county. I’m a Homicide detective—it’s my job.”

Amy began to turn away, but Marte shoved her microphone back in her face. “I’m afraid that’s not an adequate answer, Detective. My sources in the Sheriff’s Office claim that you’re obsessed with this case because of your sister’s murder. Do you believe you have the necessary distance to investigate this case objectively?”

Calice, inside sources?

She fought to keep her composure, intensely aware of Beckett standing next to her, radiating hostility toward the earnest young reporter.

“Any concerns in that regard should be addressed to Captain Cramer,” she answered calmly. With a nod to the two deputies standing by, Amy cut off the scrum. Along with Beckett, the deputies cleared a path to her car.

“Smoke’s coming out your ears,” Beckett said as she fired up the engine.

Amy swore as she wheeled out of the lot. “That goddamn Ryan. She can be brutal, but I never thought she’d blab to a reporter about my sister.”

“You’re sure it was her?”

“I don’t know of any other cop who would undermine me.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a detective.” He pointed to the HQ building. “Lots of other people in there must know, too.”

Amy tried to relax her tight jaw. “I know I shouldn’t let them get to me, but reporters can be such jackasses. I wonder how they’d like somebody rooting around in their past. Poking at wounds that hurt almost as much now as they did all those years ago.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry. I know what it feels like.”

She was so focused on her own feelings that she kept forgetting his past. God, could she be more self-absorbed? “They kept bringing up your sister’s death?”

“The media really hooked on to it when I left the army and went back to playing baseball. Even though I had a medical discharge, some reporters liked the theory that it was primarily psychological. That I still couldn’t deal with what happened to Kate.”

She glanced at his grim features, a little shocked. “I’m sure that wasn’t true.”

Beckett turned his head and stared out the window as she sped onto the I-95 on-ramp. “Just the opposite. When al-Qaeda murdered her, I wanted to go to Iraq and hunt down every single son of a bitch that had a hand in the kidnapping. But less than two weeks later my Humvee was blown up by a roadside bomb. Killed two guys in my company outright, and another died after being airlifted to Germany. I was lucky. All I got was some shrapnel souvenirs and a first-class concussion. That’s how I wound up with a medical discharge.” He exhaled a sigh. “Every once and awhile somebody still brings Kate up, though. It’s something we’ll always have to live with, you and me.”

As he spoke, Amy felt the bond tighten between them, and
that
she didn’t need.

“Well, screw the reporters,” she tossed back at him. “Now that we’ve got a solid lead, I don’t want to waste even five minutes on them. Five minutes could mean a woman’s life.”

Wednesday, August 4

8:30 p.m.

By flooring it, Amy got them to Roger Dean Stadium in less than twenty minutes. Flashing her badge at the ticket taker, she led Beckett through the gates into the now-familiar ballpark. Through an entry corridor leading to the stands, she glimpsed the center field scoreboard. The game was still in the first inning.

The team store was located just inside the main entrance. Close to empty, it was staffed by two bored-looking young guys sitting behind a counter. Two rail-thin girls, maybe nineteen or twenty years old, picked through racks of apparel with disdainful looks. They gave the distinct impression they’d rather be anywhere than at a baseball game on this hot summer evening.

“Their boyfriends are obviously the baseball fans,” Beckett said when he noticed Amy frowning at the girls. “The guys are drinking beer and relaxing while they enjoy the game, and the girls are already out here screwing around because they’re bored out of their minds.”

Amy shot him a glare. “What, you’re the Mentalist, now?”

He chuckled. “They just want it to be over with so they can hit the clubs. The guys probably haven’t even noticed they’re not around anymore.”

Amy jabbed his rock hard bicep. “Is that a variation on the bro’s before ho’s theme?”

He gave her that damn lopsided grin. “Hey, I just call it as I see it.”

That jock mentality had always driven her crazy. “Maybe that’s why so many athletes have lousy marriages,” she retorted. “Or never get married at all.”

He arched a brow, then turned and sauntered to the counter. Sighing, she followed.

The clerk closest to them was focused on a magazine open on the counter and didn’t look up. When Beckett cleared his throat, the young man finally raised his eyes, which suddenly went wide.

“Luke Beckett?” he managed in a faint voice.

Beckett stuck out his hand. “Yep. How are you?”

“Um…fine. Wow.” The clerk rose, grasped Beckett’s hand and pumped it. “Jimmy Bentall. Wow, Luke Beckett. Go Nationals!”

Beckett smiled. “Jimmy, this is Detective Robitaille of the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office.”

Bentall looked even more astonished. “You’re here with a cop?”

As Amy tapped her badge, Bentall’s face turned a deep scarlet shade. He looked ready to have a panic attack. Or a stroke. Probably had some weed in his pocket.

“Relax, Jimmy,” she said. “We just want to ask you about a man who may have recently bought some merchandise here.”

The kid exhaled a long breath. “Oh, okay. Sure.”

Amy reached into her file folder and drew out Orosco’s composites and Kozak’s ID card. She arrayed them on the counter. “You, too,” she said to the other clerk. The second guy sidled around to look over Bentall’s shoulder.

“Can I touch them?” Bentall asked.

Amy nodded.

He picked up each item separately, holding them at various lengths until he seemed to get them in the right focus. Maybe he needed glasses.

Bentall pointed to the composite with the sunglasses and the stubble. “I definitely remember this dude.”

Amy’s pulse quickened as Beckett shot her a glance. “What about you?” she asked the other clerk. He grimaced and shook his head no.

She pointed to Kozak’s ID. “Jimmy, could this be the same man?”

Bentall pursed his lips, then shook his head. “If it’s the guy I’m thinking of, he had the shades and the whiskers. “This guy...” he pointed to Kozak’s photo. “I can’t say for sure. Sorry.”

“No problem. You’re sure of this one?” She indicated the sunglasses composite.

Bentall nodded. “He was in here a couple of weeks ago. More than once, I think. But I remember the one time because of what he bought.”

“A Cardinals shirt and cap?” Beckett asked.

“Yeah. Actually, a couple of each. But the funny thing was that he picked up a bunch of Hammerheads gear, too. That’s why I remember, because that doesn’t happen much at all. Usually folks are fans of one team, but not the other, right? It’s the home stadium for both teams, but I can’t remember anybody else buying stuff for both—at least not at the same time.” Bentall dropped his voice a notch. “What’s this guy done, anyway?”

“He’s a suspect in a murder investigation,” Amy said.

“Holy Jesus.” Wide-eyed, Bentall exhaled a big sigh. “Man, he seemed like a nice enough dude.”

“Did you notice any tattoos?” Amy asked.

“He had a couple on his arms. One was kind of weird, too. A big heart with a dagger through it. Somebody musta broke his heart, right?”

Amy felt a jolt, but she clamped down on her reaction. “You’ve got an excellent memory, Jimmy. This is really helpful. Do you remember the other time or times you saw him in here?”

The young man shook his head. “I don’t think so, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him around.”

Beckett quirked an eyebrow. “Seen him somewhere other than here? What about at Chester’s bar?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I go over there sometimes, but I just don’t know. Maybe it’ll come to me later.”

Amy handed him her card. “You call me the minute you remember anything. Anything at all.”

Bentall took the card. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

“You’ve helped plenty,” she said.

After shaking hands with both clerks, she and Beckett headed to her car. As soon as he got in, Beckett smacked the flat of his hand against the dash. “The bastard is dressing in team gear, and probably showing the women fake team ID, too. He had Hammerheads’ gear for Carrie Noble and Ashley Rist, and Cardinals’ gear for Megan O’Neill.”

No wonder the killer was getting past the victims’ defenses. They must have thought he knew their husbands, and maybe was associated with the team. “Let’s hope he doesn’t have a fucking closet full of team shirts and caps,” she growled.

“Don’t bet on it. Can you find out where he’s getting his fake ID?”

Amy tapped the steering wheel, thinking hard. “I suspect he’s cobbled together a do-it-yourself job, since I doubt that the women would be giving it close scrutiny. But who knows? All I know is that it would take a hell of a lot of manpower for us to go down that road, and I have a feeling it would be a dead end, anyway.”

Beckett cursed. She could sense the burgeoning anger inside him. The composites had brought the killer closer to home, and he was obviously carrying the weight of trying to figure out where he’d seen the man before.

She touched his arm. “We’re going to get him, Beckett. I can feel it. After that composite goes out in the media, it should just be a matter of time.”

But how much time do we have before the next one?

Beckett looked grim. “What if he’s grabbed another victim already? Or takes one tonight?”

That was Amy’s nightmare. “Then I just hope every baseball player’s wife or girlfriend gets herself a goddamn gun and keeps it under her pillow until we catch this sick son of a bitch.”

Wednesday, August 4

8:40 p.m.

The police composites looked a lot like him, but they weren’t perfect. Not by a long shot.

They had the eyes all wrong. And he’d let his beard grow for a few days. Most people who knew him had always seen a clean-shaven guy, and he looked a lot younger without the stubble.

And nobody ever saw him wearing that Cardinals shit. Nobody except Ashley Rist and Megan O’Neill, and they weren’t talking.

Then there was that goddamn flower shop woman, who obviously gave them what they needed for the sketches. They weren’t great likenesses, but he had to figure somebody would connect the dots sooner or later.

As soon as those composites hit the TV, he knew he was basically fucked, at least as far as completing this particular mission. That little bitch detective, so smug, so sure of herself. He’d seen it in her eyes. They practically screamed out:
I’ve got him now
.

He’d liked it when that reporter knocked her on her ass with the question about her sister. The woman had Robitaille pegged. She was totally obsessed.

With him
.

But if he pressed his luck, Robitaille would get her wish. He’d already made one big mistake, and now his mission was circling the toilet because of it.

One dumbass mistake. He’d wracked his brains for the best way to get to Megan, and had come up with the flowers idea. And it had made sense at the time that he should get a really special bouquet—something a husband with money would send to his wife, and something that would help get Megan to open the door to him. The other option had been to just break in after she went to bed, but that was risky because he hadn’t had time to scout either her or the house. Going in blind, anything could have been waiting for him when he picked her locks.

No, he’d been right to try to fool the bitch. But getting the flowers at that little shop—that had been a mistake.

And he’d compounded the error by leaving the fucking flowers at the crime scene. He’d thrown the whole job together at the last minute because he had to get Megan before she hiked off to Springfield with Heath. He hadn’t planned to do her until the next trip, but Heath’s unexpected promotion had forced the issue.