by V. K. Sykes
Knight handed her one of his cards. He’d written Noble’s number on the back. “I’m heading back to HQ,” he said. “You two meet with the rest of the squad. Amy, you divide up the work, of course.”
Amy glanced over toward Ryan and Washington, waiting in their car. Scarpelli was still talking to Melinda Rodriguez. Amy asked Poushinsky to round them up.
“We’ve got a probable ID,” she said when the rest of the squad had gathered around her. “I’m going to get hold of the victim’s husband now. I’d appreciate it if you guys would stick around so I can brief you if I reach him. Then we can figure out our next moves.”
It stuck in her craw to have to carefully shape her words into a request instead of a directive, but she didn’t see any point in escalating the unproductive battle with Ryan.
All but Ryan nodded. No one spoke. “Okay, then,” Amy said, turning away to dial Matt Noble’s number. He answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Noble? This is Detective Robitaille of the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office. I understand, sir, that you reported your wife missing a few minutes ago.”
A harsh breath sounded. “I’ve been calling our house all morning. There’s no way Carrie would be out anywhere at six-thirty. And for damn sure not with her car still in the driveway. I’m going crazy up here. I’m going to rent a car and drive back. I should be home around noon.”
Amy caught an edge of panic in his clipped sentences. “Where exactly is home, sir?”
“Jupiter.” He gave her the street address and she nearly swallowed her tongue. The Nobles lived in her own development, a ten or fifteen-minute leisurely walk away.
Now came the hellacious part. She willed her voice to be gentle and steady. “Mr. Noble, I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid the body of a young woman apparently matching your wife’s description was discovered in Okeeheelee Park early this morning.”
She heard a choking gasp over the line, followed by silence. Amy remained silent, too, allowing the man a bit of time to grapple with the unthinkable.
Finally she spoke. “Sir? We’d like you to meet us at the County Medical Examiner’s Office as soon as you get back here. To determine if the victim is indeed your wife.”
“You’re absolutely sure the body fits the description I gave?” His voice was so strained it barely sounded like the same man. He was clearly searching for any sliver of hope.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Part of her wanted to tell the poor guy the unvarnished truth, but that wasn’t the protocol. “Only you can properly identify your wife, sir. It’s not appropriate for me to speculate.”
“I understand,” he said numbly. He didn’t, of course. He couldn’t possibly know what his life was about to become.
But she did. “Sir, when did you leave home?”
“Yesterday morning,” he choked out. “The team bus left for Viera around ten.”
“Did you speak to your wife after that?”
“She called me before I headed to the ballpark. Around four-thirty, I guess.”
“Was that the last time you spoke to her?”
“Yeah.” His voice caught again. “We had a fight, and we both said some shitty things. I couldn’t get it off my mind. Not just during the game, either. I stewed about it all night. That’s why I tried calling her early this morning, to catch her before she went out. I wanted to talk it through. Say I was sorry.”
Amy made a note. The fact that the couple had a fight a few hours before Carrie Noble was killed would need follow-up. But it could wait until the man had identified his wife’s body. And they’d checked out his alibi.
“Was she at home when the two of you spoke, Mr. Noble?”
“She must have been. I remember that our home number came up on my call display.”
“All, right. I’ll have more questions for you later, but I won’t keep you now. I know you said you were going to rent a car, but are you sure you’re up for the drive? I could send a deputy to pick you up.”
“Thanks, but that would just waste time. I’ll drive myself.”
“That’s fine, but you’ve had a big shock, so you need to be extra careful driving. Don’t go barreling down the interstate. And when you get to town, come straight to the M.E.’s Office on Gun Club Road, please. It’s the building right beside the Sheriff’s Office. Call me when you’re getting near West Palm, and we’ll meet you there.” She gave him her cell number, and took down the name and address of the neighbor he’d asked to check on his wife this morning.
After she hung up, Amy rejoined the rest of the squad. Again, they formed a circle, Ryan still glowering like the Wicked Witch.
“Our victim is almost certainly Carrie Noble,” Amy said. “Her husband Matt is a Jupiter baseball player. He claims to have been out of town last night with his team, so we need to check that out. No doubt he was with the team during the game, but let’s see if he has an alibi for the overnight hours. He’s on his way back now, and when he gets in he’ll meet me at the M.E.’s Office to identify the body.”
“Holy shit,” Poushinsky exhaled. “Two baseball players’ wives? What the fuck?”
What the fuck, indeed . Amy didn’t respond. “Let’s get up to their house now and start talking to the people living on that street. Poushinsky and I will take the neighbor who checked their house, then head back here to meet Noble. Jenn, DeSean, Adrianna—you keep at it with the rest of the neighbors. Cover the whole street, and the cross streets, too. Carrie Noble left her house, but not in her car, sometime between late afternoon and very early morning. Let’s hope somebody noticed when and how.”
The squad broke up and she and Poushinsky headed back to her car. It looked like her serial killer was a psycho who tortured and killed wives of baseball players. Her mind flashed again to her sister, M.L., and suddenly Amy’s dream case had the makings of another very personal nightmare.
7
* * *
Thursday, July 29
10:15 a.m.
The Ardiels’ townhouse on Sea Chase Drive in the sprawling Abacoa development of Jupiter was a mirror reflection of Matt and Carrie Noble’s place next door. Both were attractive, three-storey homes with bright yellow exteriors and white columns in front. Clusters of Sabal palms relieved the monotony of similar hues and designs. Amy liked the fact that the townhouses had been designed to keep the garages out of sight, unlike so many developments where big garages, driveways, and parked cars turned the streetscape into the worst kind of suburban wasteland.
A deputy had parked his cruiser in the Nobles’ driveway, keeping the house off-limits until the body was identified. If Jane Doe turned out to be Carrie Noble, it would become a crime scene.
Amy and Poushinsky exchanged a few words with the deputy, then picked their way up the neighbor’s driveway past a couple of bicycles, a crappy plastic wagon, a tricycle, and an assortment of neon-colored super-soakers. When a tired-looking woman answered the door, Amy pointed to the badge attached to her pistol belt.
“We’re sorry to have to bother you, Mrs. Ardiel,” Amy said after introducing herself and Poushinsky. “We need to ask you a few questions about Carrie Noble. Her husband has reported her missing.”
The thirty-something woman held a three-year-old girl in her fleshy arms. The stringy-haired kid was whining about something Amy couldn’t manage to make out. Not that she wanted to know. Whiney toddlers always bugged the hell out of her. She was thankful her nephew Cooper seemed to have outgrown that stage.
“You must have talked to Matt already,” the woman said in a weary voice. “Didn’t he already tell you everything?”
“Do you mind if we come inside for a couple of minutes, ma’am?” Poushinsky asked with that lazy grin Amy knew was both natural and thoroughly practiced.
The put-upon mother responded to his charm with a reluctant smile. “I suppose not, but the place is a complete mess. I haven’t even had a chance to clean up after breakfast, what with all the running back and forth next door. And this one needs a nap soon
.” She turned and headed down the hall. Amy followed, while Poushinsky closed the door behind them.
Mrs. Ardiel leaned against the kitchen counter, still holding the kid. The girl refused to look at them, turning her face into her mother’s shoulder while maintaining her whine. “Amber, stop that,” her mother pleaded. Amber ignored the entreaty.
“Is your husband at work, ma’am?” Poushinsky asked.
“He works the graveyard shift. He got home around six, so he’s upstairs sleeping now. There’ll be hell to pay if I have to wake him up.”
“What’s his name?”
“Cal. Calvin Ardiel.”
“He was at work last night between midnight and three a.m.?”
“Well, he sure as hell better have been,” Merritt Ardiel snorted.
Amy flicked her eyes at Poushinsky, a signal that he should follow up with Cal Ardiel’s employer. “How well do you know Matt and Carrie Noble?”
“We’re next door neighbors, but we’re not, like, really close or anything. Carrie and I talk sometimes. She’s a sweet girl. And she likes our kids, especially this one. For some reason.” She blew a raspberry against Amber’s cheek and the little girl giggled. “Carrie volunteered to look after the ankle biters a few times when I had to take one to an appointment.”
“What about Mr. Noble? You obviously know him well enough that he’d call you to check on Carrie.”
“Matt’s a nice enough guy to talk to, but he’s not around all that much. When he isn’t off playing baseball somewhere, he’s golfing, or drinking beer with his pals.”
Ignoring his wife? “How did Mrs. Noble feel about all that?” Amy said.
The woman hesitated. “Well, I don’t want to tell tales out of school about their relationship.”
“You might as well tell us now, Mrs. Ardiel,” Poushinsky said with another engaging grin. “Otherwise, we’ll be asking you the same questions at the Sheriff’s Office.”
Mrs. Ardiel gave an exasperated sigh before setting Amber down and telling her to go up to her room. The girl grabbed her mother’s jeans in her little fists and almost pulled her off her feet. “Dammit, Amber,” she groaned. The poor woman looked almost at her wit’s end.
“Carrie doesn’t like any of it,” she said. “Not one little bit. She told me they fight about that a lot. About having kids, too. They’ve been married two or three years, and Carrie doesn’t want to wait. She’s lonely, and she thinks having a kid would give her some focus.” She gazed down at Amber drooling on her leg before picking the girl back up again. “Yeah, right.”
Not for the first time, Amy felt a little lucky to be childless. “What about her husband? How did he feel about having kids?”
“Carrie said he wouldn’t even start to think about it until he’d made the major leagues and starting earning some real money.” The woman snorted. “And she figured that meant never. She’d pretty much given up hope that Matt would ever make it big.”
“Did Carrie ever mention any instances of violence between them?”
Mrs. Ardiel shook her messy, shoulder-length hair. “Oh, no. Nothing like that. Matt doesn’t treat Carrie right, but I don’t think he’s the kind of guy that beats on his wife.”
Amy was skeptical, but let it slide. “To your knowledge, was either of them involved with anyone else?”
The woman didn’t blink an eyelash. “Carrie never mentioned anything like that to me. But then I don’t suppose she would, would she? I mean, I wouldn’t go around telling my neighbors if I was cheating on Cal.”
Amy smiled. “You’d be surprised what people talk about to virtual strangers, much less neighbors. Now, did you see Carrie leave the house at any time yesterday evening? Or did someone approach their house? A friend? Or maybe someone making a delivery?”
“No, but I’m pretty busy, so I don’t notice when she comes and goes. And I went to bed early last night—as soon as I finally got the monster here down. I popped a pill around nine-thirty, so I’m sure I was dead to the world by ten. I haven’t slept worth a damn since I had kids. At least not without a mother’s little helper.”
“No noises in the middle of the night?”
She rolled her eyes. “Just my oldest waking me up to tell me he couldn’t sleep.”
Amy closed her notebook and glanced at Poushinsky, who nodded. “That’s all the questions we have at the moment. We appreciate your time.”
Back in the car, Poushinsky opened a new pack of Orbit spearmint and offered it to Amy. She waved his hand away. “Marriage and kids,” he said, popping two pieces into his mouth. “The Ardiels and the Nobles aren’t exactly poster couples for marital bliss, are they?”
“Matt’s a good old boy, and Carrie was a frustrated young wife stuck somewhere she didn’t want to be. A tried and true formula for trouble in River City.”
Her partner looked thoughtful. “I figure he could have killed her. We’re only a couple of hours away from where he played last night. No sweat to off her and get back up there before anyone noticed.”
Amy had been thinking along those lines, too. “He could have taken her somewhere else, killed her, and dumped her body in the park, leaving their home pristine. They had a bad marriage, and a big fight just a few hours before her murder. But, then there’s the Lakeland murder.”
“That one could have been practice for him,” her partner speculated. “It’s not like it hasn’t been done before.”
“Practice and misdirection,” Amy said, starting the car. Right now, Matt Noble was the closest thing they had to a suspect.
She hoped to hell he was more than that.
8
* * *
Thursday, July 29
12:10 p.m.
Luke Beckett and Kellen Cramer had slipped into a solid friendship despite philosophical differences that should have made it impossible for them to become close. It had started with one thing in common—their dedication to the kids at the Children’s Hospital. One weekend afternoon, they ended up in the same unit and got into a conversation. That led to a few beers at a bar in Fort Lauderdale, and the next thing Luke knew, he was playing golf at least once a week with his new pal.
Regularly, their get-togethers ended in shouting matches. One time it would be politics, with Luke unable to stomach Cramer’s staunch social conservatism. Hell, Luke was no airy-fairy liberal, but in the little Louisiana town where he’d grown up, Democrats had ruled the roost for as long as anyone could remember. But what drove them practically to blows was Cramer’s fanatical worship of the New York Yankees. The freaking Yankees. The devil’s spawn. Though he hadn’t even played in the American league, Luke hated the Bronx Bombers, anyway.
For some reason, he and Kellen liked each other enough to overcome those normally irreconcilable differences. So, when his friend called and insisted he drop whatever he had planned and meet for lunch, Luke hadn’t hesitated. Cramer had said it was about something important, and his uncharacteristic vagueness had tweaked Luke’s interest.
Not to mention the fact that he could use the opportunity to casually extract some info about Detective Robitaille. The image of her hasty retreat out the door of the hospital made him smile as he shot up the interstate in his Mustang.
Luke needed his GPS to find the hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant not far from the West Palm airport. His cop friend liked occasional exotic cuisine to supplement his diet of coffee and donuts. For Luke, anything more daring than grilled steaks and baked Idahos constituted exotic, but Cramer kept insisting he broaden his horizons. He’d learned to appreciate a good dim sum, and he’d come to terms with tandoori chicken, but that was about it.
The restaurant was tiny enough that Luke was able to easily spot his friend at the rear, his chair facing the entrance. Cramer was dressed to the nines, obviously in full professional mode. And natty, especially compared to Luke’s well-worn jeans and Nationals’ tee shirt. Luke grabbed the opposite chair, picked up the Corona already waiting for him, and took a pull.
“You�
��re late,” Cramer said, making a point of staring at his watch. “Your beer’s been getting warm.”
“Good to see you again, too, Kellen.”
Cramer snorted. “Catch any of the Yanks-Angels game last night?”
“Nah, too late. I was getting my beauty sleep.”
“You should have seen the monster homer Teixeira hit in the top of the ninth for the go-ahead runs. That guy’s got almost as much power as you had.”
“Almost,” Luke conceded with a chuckle.
“Good thing he’s not as full of himself as you were.”
“Wow. Looked in the mirror lately, man?”
“Drink your beer,” Cramer said with a smirk.
Luke drained half the bottle in a long pull. “I’m thinking you didn’t insist on me dropping everything just for the usual chit-chat. What’s going on?”
Cramer hesitated for a couple of seconds. “Murder is going on. Two young women—one near Lakeland a few weeks ago, the other here in West Palm early this morning. And it’s got to be the same killer. Given the rituals, it looks like we’ve got a serial murderer.”
Luke clenched his teeth. Even after all these years, it still felt like a hard punch to the gut every time he heard or read about a young woman getting murdered. And two in the same area, with maybe more to come? What a freaking nightmare.
Cramer knew that kind of news would hit him hard. So, why was he telling him?
“There must be a good reason you’re telling me that,” Luke said.
Cramer looked guilty. “There is. Both victims were wives of minor league ballplayers, Luke. And both had the word OUT carved into their abs.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Luke muttered. “They were raped?”
“The one near Lakeland wasn’t. I’m betting the rape kit on the victim here will show nothing, either.”
That was surprising. Luke hadn’t studied serial killers, but when young women were abducted and murdered, he knew rape was usually involved. “Any leads so far?”