by Pamela Clare
When she opened them, he was standing straight again, intently flicking air bubbles from the needle. “Forgiveness. They say it’s divine, don’t they? Well, Carrie, you’ll have to hope God forgives you. Though I don’t see how he’s going to look too kindly on one of Satan’s whores.”
He pointed at the metal case. “Like I said, I can’t forgive you, but I can make your passage to eternity easier. Those vials contain the same stuff that they use to knock off the poor bastards on death row. They call it a drug cocktail, but it’s no fucking Long Island Iced Tea, I can tell you that.”
Carrie moaned as Poole laughed at his own sick joke. Then he pushed the plunger down and a few droplets of cold liquid dripped onto her stomach, making her stiffen.
“Here’s the thing, Carrie. You can see that the more I do that, the less juice there is in the syringe. And that means it’s going to get bad for you a little later. Real bad. Believe me, this stuff is what you want in your veins right about now. And as much as you can get.”
It must be a sedative. Carrie almost wished he’d just shut up and inject her with so much that she’d go to sleep and die. Almost. But she wasn’t ready to give up yet. She had to keep him talking.
“What…what is it? A sedative? Is that how you’re going to kill me?” She didn’t want to know, but would talk about anything to drag out the time.
He pursed his lips as he inspected the syringe. “This one’s a sedative. Those other two, though—they’re bad shit. Really bad shit. If I keep squirting this nice stuff out, so you only end up getting a tiny little bit, I’m afraid you’re going to still be wide awake for the other two shots. That means you’re going to see and feel everything, Carrie. Everything. You’ll be paralyzed by the second needle, your lungs slowly shutting down as you asphyxiate.”
Carrie gasped and clenched her fists so tightly that her nails scored her palms. She wanted to scream, but the horror choked her.
Poole gave her a solemn nod. “You get the picture. That would suck, wouldn’t it? But hold on, it gets worse. A few seconds after I give you the second shot—and by that time your mind will already be begging for death—I’ll inject the last drug. That one’s the real deal. The coup de grace—I think that’s what they call it. Can you imagine what it would be like to have something like lye or drain cleaner coursing through every vein in your body? They say that’s what it feels like if you get a shot of vial number three while you’re still conscious. You feel like every vein in your body is on fire. The stuff rips through you like that until it hits your heart and switches off the lights for good.”
He nodded, as if he’d handed down some divine truth. “Your choice, Carrie. And you’ve got ten more seconds to make it. I’m on a schedule.”
He squirted a tiny bit more onto her skin.
Her body gave a violent shudder, and any last vestige of fight drained away. Time had run out. She didn’t want to die in agony. She would say anything—whatever he wanted.
“Stop!” she cried. “I’ll confess. I’ll tell you everything. Whatever you want to know.”
He smiled at her, looking almost kind, and the dam broke. She emptied it all out, choking on two and a half years of a miserable, frustrating marriage. Yes, she’d been a bitch, lonely and angry to be stuck in small towns, thousands of miles from home, while Matt frittered away their future. She confessed her infidelity but, terrified of more pain, she swallowed all mention of Matt’s numerous affairs. The injustice of it scorched her like a river of fire, but it was too late now. Too late for anything but death.
Like some demented therapist, Poole stood quietly by, nodding solemnly as she poured out her sorry, sordid life. By the time she finished, she was exhausted beyond all comprehension, barely able to utter a resigned moan.
“Good girl, Carrie,” Poole said in a soothing voice. “You’ve said enough. You can go to your sweet sleep now.”
He carefully refilled the syringe he’d half-emptied, and it almost made her smile.
Chapter Three
Thursday, July 29
8:20 a.m.
“Robitaille, Poushinsky. My office. Now!”
Captain Cramer’s voice boomed across the Homicide Floor, breaking over Amy like a rogue wave. She jumped up and fought to gather her scattered thoughts. Staring at the computer screen for the past five minutes, she hadn’t a clue what she was reading. Her mind had drifted yet again to yesterday’s encounter with Luke Beckett. She prided herself on never becoming flustered, but Beckett had made her feel more like a schoolgirl with a crush than a rational adult.
That annoyed the hell out of her, and was likely the reason she couldn’t forget the encounter.
Depositing her second super-sized latté of the day on her desk, she crossed the Floor and veered down the hall toward the commander’s office. Captain Cramer held the door open as she slid by his six-three frame. Quite a specimen, their new captain—something the women in her unit had all noted since he’d taken the top dog’s chair two months ago. Not that anyone would act on it. Cramer was their boss.
Sergeant Will Knight, her squad supervisor, sat in front of the desk, gloomy as always that early in the morning.
Amy settled into a vacant chair. What had she done wrong now? She was rarely summoned to the office of the commander of the Violent Crimes Division, and Cramer looked ready to eat scrap iron for breakfast.
“Where the hell’s Pushy?” her boss snapped, still holding the door as if he expected Alex Poushinsky to be right on her heels.
“Not in yet, sir. He told me yesterday he might be a little late getting in this morning. A family responsibility. Something to do with his niece, I think.”
“Well, goddamn it, it’s already eight-twenty. We’re not waiting for him to show up. You better find his ass as soon as you’re out of here and brief him. Take a seat.”
Amy plastered on her most serious face as she plucked a stray thread from the sleeve of her blazer. Cramer was a stickler for appearances, as anyone could tell by one look at his tailored, dark blue suit, pale blue shirt, and natty foulard tie. Was that shade really periwinkle?
Periwinkle, calice.
She hastily swallowed an impulse to laugh, then nodded a greeting to Knight. He returned the nod without a smile.
Not good.
Cramer launched into it before he even sat down. “A jogger found a young woman’s body on the south side of Okeeheelee Park about an hour ago. At the edge of the water, not too far from the horse stables. Blond hair, blue eyes, tall, tanned and fit, around twenty-five years old. Wedding and engagement rings on her finger.” He gave his tie a small yank and sat down. “Deputies and CSU are securing the scene.”
Why would he call me in here to tell me that? “Was there evidence of rape, sir?” Amy ventured as Cramer paused to take a hit of his coffee.
“She was naked, but there were no obvious signs of sexual trauma. She’d been bound, exhibiting ligature marks on her neck, wrists, and ankles. She’d been posed, too—on her back, legs straight and tight together, her arms folded across her chest. The word OUT was carved into her stomach.” He flicked a glance at Knight, then focused on her. “Ring any bells, Robitaille?”
She went blank for a second before her pulse kicked into overdrive. “Tabarnak,” she muttered. It was her favorite and most high-powered curse.
Cramer scowled at her. “What?”
Amy pulled it together. “Yes, sir. The abduction and murder in Polk County last month. The one where the murderer used lethal injection drugs.”
Cramer nodded.
“And in that case there was evidence of torture,” she continued. “I mean beyond the post-mortem carving. Her face was slashed. But, still, it’s probably the same killer.”
“I’m betting the autopsy will show the same drug combination, too,” Cramer said. “Looks like we’ve got a fucking serial killer on our hands, people.”
Amy’s heart pounded so hard she had to fight for breath, all the while trying to appear calm so Cramer and Kni
ght wouldn’t think she’d lost her mind. Please God, let them give me this case. They had to be considering it. Why else would they have summoned her?
She forced herself to be still, but all her focus and energy—everything in her—contracted into laser-beam intensity. This was why she’d become a cop. For this exact moment. And for the moment when she caught a sick predator like this guy and brought him to justice.
Or put a bullet in his head, which was her preference.
“Looks that way,” Knight said in his morose, starved-for-caffeine voice. “I checked the missing persons’ reports. Nothing there matches the vic’s description.”
Cramer seemed to be calming down, now looking thoughtful. “Maybe the husband’s out of town. The killer waited for him to leave, then struck.”
Amy’s instincts were in agreement. “That’s what happened in Polk, where the victim’s husband played baseball for the Lakeland team. The night of the murder, the husband tried calling her again and again from Fort Myers where he was playing. When she didn’t answer, he rented a car and drove home. Two uniforms were waiting at his door.”
Cramer nodded. “Robitaille, I know you’re not up next on the board, but we’re making you lead on this. Pushy will assist, but the whole squad will be involved. You need to get together with Polk County as soon as you can.”
His gaze flicked over to the sergeant before settling back on her. “Are you up for this, Detective? Tell me right now if you don’t want it, and I’ll give it to Ryan. She’ll be happy to have it.”
Hell, yes, Amy wanted to shout. Instead, she looked as calmly as she could at Knight. He and Cramer had no doubt discussed this before they called her in, but he deserved to be the one to make the call. As soon as their eyes met, he nodded.
“I want it, sir,” she said, placing the flat of her hand on Cramer’s desk, almost as if to ground herself against the rush of adrenaline.
Excitement hummed through her veins. It should have made her feel guilty, but it didn’t. Yeah, it sucked that she’d actually hoped there would be a case like this in their jurisdiction, but she’d come to terms with that a long time ago. Nailing a serial killer before he struck down another innocent woman might be her chance to finally put Ariane’s death behind her. And maybe even resurrect her own heart—the one she’d buried in her twin sister’s coffin.
“Good for you,” Cramer said with an approving nod. “You’re one of our best detectives, and I usually only dish out compliments at Christmas.”
“If then,” Knight said sardonically.
Cramer ignored the quip. “But given your history, Robitaille…well, let’s just say that I’d understand if this case felt too personal.”
Amy gave a firm shake of her head. Her bosses needed to see she was in complete control on this one, and that she could remain in control no matter what happened. “I appreciate that, sir. But I can handle it. I will handle it.”
Cramer gave a faint imitation of a smile and stood. “Good. Get out to the scene and have a report for me by noon. I’m calling the FBI right now with a heads-up. If this is the same guy as in Lakeland, we’ll want them to give us a profile right away.”
Amy tried but didn’t quite manage not to roll her eyes. She didn’t have much time for the so-called experts from Quantico with their state of the art computers and profiles that were often little better than guesses. Fat lot of good they’d been in Ariane’s murder.
She hesitated at the door. “Captain?”
“What, Robitaille?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, sir.”
Cramer gave her a brusque nod. “You earned it. You’re a good cop. But if you make me look like a chump, I’ll kick your ass so far into the next county you’ll need a map to find your way back.”
Chapter Four
Thursday, July 29
8:45 a.m.
Alex Poushinsky groaned as he slumped heavily into the passenger seat of Amy’s standard-issue Taurus. “Thanks for covering for me,” he muttered. He gulped from his cup of gross, fast-food coffee, looking like he’d just travelled up from one of the seven circles of Hell.
Amy cursed the morning traffic as cars backed up at the light on South Military Trail, then turned her attention back to her partner. “Cramer was pissed. You owe me, Poushinsky.”
“I should have called in sick. This fucking hangover could wind up being fatal.”
She laughed. “World’s smallest violin. There are two things Cramer has no use for—strip bars and drunks. You’re definitely pushing the envelope.”
Poushinsky snorted. “Jesus, what’s he doing being a cop, then?”
She flicked him a wry glance before concentrating on the snarl of traffic in front of them. Since Poushinsky had transferred over from the Jacksonville P.D., she’d already worked one case with him but they were still getting to know each other. He was a bit of an oddball and a rebel, but she liked him. More importantly, she sensed she could trust him to have her back when it came to the crunch, despite his erratic lifestyle choices.
“Criss! This traffic is unbelievable.” She bumped the Taurus up over the curb. With two wheels on the grass, she passed the line of cars ahead of her and made a right turn onto Summit with a thump and a screech.
Poushinsky grinned. “Sweet. Your dad teach you that move?”
Amy couldn’t help a little snort. “No, but he taught me how to drive in snow. Really useful skill to have in south Florida.”
“You’re a hard case, Robitaille.”
“You want to see a hard case?” she asked grimly. “I’ll introduce you to my father.”
She could fight it and rail about it all she wanted, but genes were genes. I am my father, dammit. At least when it comes to bad guys. She hit the gas and moved into the left lane.
“I wonder why Cramer put us together on this one,” Poushinsky finally said, breaking the silence. “Neither of us was up, and we’re not exactly two peas in a pod.”
Amy didn’t bother to answer.
“He must think opposites work well together,” Poushinsky continued, obviously trying to push her buttons. Even with a raging headache he had to play the smartass. “What with me actually liking conversation and you rationing out sentences like they cost you ten bucks each.”
Amy shot him an exaggerated scowl, but he didn’t even blink. The new detective everyone but her called “Pushy” had already earned his nickname. No one ever had to worry about long gaps in conversation with Alex Poushinsky around. Fortunately, he’d built a rep as a good cop in Jacksonville, and that was all Amy cared about. That and the fact that he didn’t smoke.
“He did it because you’re a non-smoker, jackass, not because he thinks you’re any good. Damn near every other detective at HQ smokes, which Cramer knows I hate. How’s that for more than one sentence?”
“You’re hilarious. I can’t believe the guys told me you didn’t have a sense of humor.”
“You’re no prize, but at least I don’t have to put up with the smoke and the stink, calice.”
That earned her a grin. “I love it when you swear in French. It turns me on.”
“I hear just about anything turns you on.” Amy gunned the car down Summit and rounded the corner onto Jog Road. “People swear at their oppressors, Poushinsky. For hundreds of years in Quebec, it was the church. So we swear at everything holy. Calice is for the holy chalice, tabarnak is the tabernacle, hostie is for the host. There’s more, too.”
He grunted, massaging his obviously aching temples. “Down here, all our swear words are about sex, so that theory kind of makes sense, I guess. But I thought you’d lived in the States most of your life?”
“I’ve been here since I was seventeen. But my heart’s still in Quebec.” She let out the tiniest of sighs. “We Quebecois never really leave notre pays. Our homeland.”
“You’re cool, you know that, Robitaille? I’d totally hit on you if you weren’t such a munchkin.”
Amy showed him her teeth. “A munchkin who cou
ld kick your skinny ass. Name the time and place.”
Poushinsky gave her a mock salute. “I’d better give that one a pass. I’d have to head for a monastery or something if I got my ass handed to me by a girl. Not that I would, of course.”
Amy laughed. “Coward.”
Minutes later, she made a left turn off Forest Hills Road into the southern section of Okeeheelee Park. She spotted a Crime Scene Unit van parked a couple of hundred yards down the narrow park road, just south of the equestrian center. She stopped the car at the side of the road, then she and Poushinsky ducked under the yellow scene tape and signed in. Both snapped on latex gloves as they approached the body. It lay out in the open, at the edge of a marsh, and was easily seen from the road.
One tech, Melinda Rodriguez, was combing the ground for anything the killer might have left behind, while another, Aaron Hillier, shot photos of the body and the immediate surrounding area. Amy greeted them both.
Rodriguez looked up from her search. “Good morning, Amy.” The beautiful Hispanic woman, her sleek, raven hair tucked into a French twist, gave Poushinsky a quick perusal. “Good morning, McDreamy.”
Amy snorted, but her lanky, six-five partner was easy on the eyes. Some women would probably call him a hottie. But he wasn’t Amy’s type—though she was no longer sure what her type was any more. But not a Sheriff’s Office cop, for damn sure. Not any cop.
When Luke Beckett’s image suddenly and annoyingly popped into her mind, it didn’t surprise her. Poushinsky and Beckett were both big, hard, and thoroughly sexy men. Amy stifled a cynical laugh as she considered her usual luck with guys. One a cop, the other a ballplayer. Both out of bounds.
She glanced at her watch. “Did you guys call in the M.E. investigator yet?” The investigator was only called to the scene after it had been secured by Patrol and Crime Scene. She wanted to make sure there were no delays.