by V. K. Sykes
The tech turned around. “Pushy. Amy. I see you finally got to where the action is.”
No trouble figuring out what that meant. The four-poster bed had been trashed. The sheets had been pulled out and bunched up in the middle, one pillow lay on the floor, and four or five bed cushions had been tossed around the room. Two empty wine glasses, dusted and individually bagged, rested on one of the matching bedside tables.
“Wow,” Poushinsky said with a whistle. “Either Carrie was a heavy drinker and a violent sleeper, or I’d say she had a guest last night.”
Amy snorted as she picked up the evidence bags. One of the glasses had traces of lipstick on it. “Not likely a rape scene, is it? More like monkey sex.”
“Sure looks consensual,” Poushinsky said. “But then the guy kills her and hauls the body away? That doesn’t exactly fit the M.O. of the Lakeland killer.”
“Let’s hope he left behind a bucket load of DNA on the glasses and the sheets,” Amy said as she stared down at the bed. “But I’m not holding my breath.”
“Shannon’s killer didn’t have sex with her, and he made sure he didn’t leave any trace evidence. This guy will have used a condom, and wiped down any glass.”
Amy carefully laid the plastic bags back down on the table, troubled by what she saw. “If he left any little goodies behind, CSU will find them. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We can’t be a hundred per cent sure Carrie had sex here last night, no matter how much it looks like it.”
Carrie’s killer had to be the same as Krista Shannon’s—unless they were dealing with a copycat. But the chances of that were as thin as a thread. The theory that Matt Noble might have killed Krista for misdirection looked weak, especially given the scene in front of them. And especially after seeing Noble’s reaction to Carrie’s corpse. When he collapsed against her, he’d been dead weight, like he’d been close to fainting. That was pretty hard to fake.
Did Carrie have sex here last night? If she did, it was with someone other than Noble. Was that man the killer? And what the hell was the connection to Krista Shannon?
The autopsy would answer the first question, and maybe they’d get DNA or fiber evidence from the bedroom. Possibly a neighbor saw whoever visited Carrie last night. Scarpelli, Ryan, and Washington would meet her and Poushinsky at HQ at three for a debriefing on the results of their interviews.
But for all their earlier certainty that Carrie’s murder was the work of a serial killer, Amy couldn’t ignore the whispers of doubt drifting through her mind. Maybe Cramer and Knight were wrong about that. There had to be some kind of connection between Krista and Carrie beyond simply being married to ballplayers. A reason for someone to want to kill those two particular women.
She hoped to God there was, because then it might end here, with Carrie Noble. Maybe she was trying to talk herself into that, but the scene in the bedroom didn’t seem to add up with the serial killer assumption. Whatever had happened here, there was no evidence of any violence.
Amy blew out a tight breath, hating the uncertainty. Because, of course, the killer might just be a whack job who for some screwed up reason simply wanted to kill baseball players’ wives. Any he could get his hands on.
The faint crackling of anxiety that had been hovering in the back of Amy’s consciousness suddenly grew to a roar.
Any player’s wife.
Amy didn’t believe in fate, but this case was getting more personal by the minute.
11
* * *
Thursday, July 29
3:05 p.m.
Amy headed straight back to HQ, a single thought racing through her brain. M.L.’s loser husband, Justin Wilson, played for the Palm Beach Cardinals. Different team, but the husbands of Krista Shannon and Carrie Noble played for different teams, too. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t about a particular team.
Poushinsky watched her carefully as they wound through the burgeoning rush hour traffic but kept his mouth shut. Thank God for that. She didn’t want to have to explain her growing—and surely ridiculous—fears about her sister, or tell her partner to mind his own business.
Ever since Carrie Noble was identified, Amy had told herself there had to be something solid connecting Krista and Carrie. That the killer must have known them both—which meant there was a good chance they knew each other. But Matt Noble had denied any knowledge of Krista, and claimed not to know her husband personally, either.
They’d start digging with Krista’s and Carrie’s friends, hoping to uncover a link. There had to be one. Amy didn’t want to believe a guy would be killing women just because they were married to ballplayers. But what, then, was the killer’s motivation? Had he picked Krista and Carrie because they were easy targets?
That theory—and all kinds of others, no matter how far-fetched—rattled around in her brain. She prided herself on her cold, analytical mind. On logic, not emotion. But when it came to her little sister, her only remaining sibling, logic fled the scene in a fast-moving vehicle.
All the way back to HQ, she told herself the chances of that theory panning out were remote. But all the self-assurances wouldn’t ratchet down the anxiety that sent nauseating flutters through her gut every time she thought about M.L.
As she pulled into the sprawling HQ parking lot, Amy let out a tense breath that she felt like she’d been holding in for hours. Poushinsky gave her another concerned look.
“What’s the deal, Robitaille? You look ready to explode.”
She shot him an irritated glance. “I’m fine,” she managed in a calm voice. She couldn’t talk about the fear. Not to anybody. They’d think her past was coming back to haunt her, and would start to wonder if she could handle the stress of a serial killer case. She needed to keep her focus where it belonged—on the facts, not on her emotions.
Especially since they had a meeting coming up with Cramer and Knight. The last thing she needed was to rattle herself before briefing her bosses.
She hadn’t been surprised when Cramer’s assistant called to tell her and Poushinsky to be back at HQ for a four o’clock meeting with the boss. Cramer and Knight tended to be hands-on, demanding constant briefings from the detectives. In a high-profile case, with the media riding their asses, the need to communicate regularly and effectively became critical.
But before meeting Cramer, she needed to get her own debriefing from the rest of the squad. Washington had already told her on the phone that he and Ryan had struck pay dirt with an elderly woman directly across the street from Carrie’s house, but they’d have to go back later today to finish up with the neighbors who’d been at work.
Amy leaned over and grabbed the tray of coffee drinks they’d picked up from Starbucks. She needed a good caffeine hit, and she figured it wouldn’t hurt for her to spring for coffees for the others, too. Jenn Ryan’s addiction to caramel macchiatos was legendary in the squad room. Just maybe it would help jolt her out of her foul mood.
Fat chance.
Scarpelli, Ryan, and Washington were waiting in one of the interview rooms when Amy strode in with the loaded cardboard tray. Amy looked straight at Jenn, who couldn’t help a slight arch of her blond brows even though she was obviously killing herself not to react to the peace offering. Jenn took the cup Amy handed her, lifted the plastic lid and sniffed, then gave the briefest nod of approval. Adrianna gave Amy a thumbs-up as she passed her a decaf skinny latté.
“Thanks, guys,” DeSean said as he stared happily down at the cappuccino he’d picked from the tray.
Amy smiled back. She liked Washington. Too bad he had to ride with the Grim Reaper.
She grabbed one of the hard chairs and flipped the lid off her own black coffee, briefly luxuriating in the addictive scent of the dark roast. Forget the calorie-loaded, fancy drinks that didn’t even taste like coffee. Not that Amy had to watch her weight. Hell, she could eat poutine and drink Pepsi every day for a month and not get fat. But nothing did it for her like a shot of good, strong coffee, especially on a day like
this.
“Sounds like you guys hit a winner with that lady across the street,” she said. “I noticed her staring out the second-floor window. She Italian by any chance?”
“Not with a name like Helen Ledingham.” Jenn’s lips curled back in a slight sneer. “Can we get on with it? Washington and I have to get back out there.”
Amy sighed. “Fire away.”
DeSean gave Amy a weak smile as he shuffled his notes. “Mrs. Helen Ledingham, aged seventy-three, widowed, lives alone in the house directly across from the Noble residence. She claims she saw an SUV park in front of their place last night at approximately ten-forty p.m. The same vehicle had been there at least two or three times in the past month. While Mrs. Ledingham wasn’t able to see well enough to provide a detailed description, she noted that the man was dark-haired and around average height. She also noted that he looked young, and wore a tee shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap.”
“Good stuff. Please tell me she’s a car buff and gave you a perfect description of the SUV,” Poushinsky said, jokingly. “And wrote down the plate number.”
Ryan wasn’t amused. “Sure. Then she made a citizen’s arrest and cuffed the guy. Jesus, Poushinsky, she’s an old lady and there wasn’t a whole lot of light out there at that time of night.”
Poushinsky took a deliberate sip of coffee before saying anything. “Why don’t you take that stick out of your ass, Jenn?” he said with a genial smile. “Your posture’s rigid enough without it.”
Ryan flipped him the bird.
“She wasn’t able to be any more help with the vehicle,” Washington hastily continued. “Other than to say it was a dark color.”
“There are only about a million dark-colored SUV’s in this state,” Poushinsky said. “Anything else useful?”
Washington nodded. “Our very alert lady also saw the SUV pull out at approximately midnight.”
“Well, God bless Grandma,” Poushinsky said.
“If this guy was Carrie Noble’s abductor,” Ryan said, “she obviously knew him. So, now we concentrate on her friends, people she worked with. Someone will know our guy.”
Jenn was right. Some solid police work would soon turn up the mystery man. But would he turn out to be the murderer? “I think we can be guaranteed Carrie knew him,” Amy said. “In the Biblical sense, too.”
Washington’s deep brown eyes rounded. Ryan and Scarpelli remained impassive.
Amy tapped her index finger on the table. “There were no signs of forced entry at the house. Everything looked normal inside, other than in the master bedroom. The bed there had been slept in—trashed might be a better word—and there were two wine glasses on the bedside table. The only other unusual thing was an unmade cup of tea in the kitchen. That could suggest the victim may have been interrupted in the process of making it.”
“So, sounds like our UNSUB had sex with the victim then killed her,” Ryan said. “We find him, and I’ll bet we find a link to the Polk County murder, too.”
“But what about motive?” Poushinsky asked. “For either killing?”
“There’s no point in speculating about motive right now,” Ryan said with a haughty toss of her honey-blond mane. “Look, here’s what we’ve got. We’re ninety-eight percent sure the same guy killed both victims. We’re sure a man visited Carrie Noble last night between ten-forty and midnight—a man who’d been there several times recently. And it’s a pretty safe bet the two of them had sex. Does anybody here actually think that guy isn’t the killer? What the hell kind of coincidence would it be if somebody else abducted and killed her after he left?”
Amy wanted to raise her hand and say “me”. But it was too early for that. Ryan could speculate all she wanted. Amy would keep her speculation to herself until she got the autopsy and fingerprint results and, if necessary, the DNA analysis after that.
“Then let’s get on with the legwork,” Ryan said, after draining the last of her drink. “We need to get back to Jupiter and see if anybody else noticed the visitor or the car.”
“You three keep working that angle,” Amy agreed, meeting Ryan’s belligerent gaze. “Poushinsky and I will follow up with Noble, and with Polk County. We’ll meet here tomorrow for another debriefing.”
She didn’t flinch as Ryan’s glare flashed over her, the senior detective obviously vibrating with resentment at Amy’s orders.
Well, tough. This was Amy’s case and she’d call the shots, no matter who had a problem with her leadership. And anybody who didn’t like it could go straight to hell.
12
* * *
Thursday, July 29
4:00 p.m.
Amy tried to squeeze in some work between the team meeting and the upcoming session with the bosses. She hated meetings, hated wasting time. She’d kept her mouth shut for most of the debriefing, deciding to hold her fire as Ryan pontificated with righteous certainty about the killer. Amy preferred to let the evidence do the talking, and right now there wasn’t much that was adding up.
The case was only hours old, but already every muscle in her body felt coiled with tension. More than she’d ever experienced as a cop. And it was going to get a whole lot worse once the media grabbed onto the possibility of a serial killer. But the pressure from the outside couldn’t compare to what she was already placing on herself. Nothing had ever mattered so much. This was her case to solve, and her chance to bring down one of the monsters who left shattered lives and decades of anguish in his wake. She’d failed Ariane, but Amy would not fail these women.
Grabbing her phone, she speed-dialed Melinda Rodriguez’s cell. Melinda reported that CSU hadn’t yet finished with the crime scene, so Amy called Matt Noble and told him he couldn’t return home until morning. She knew she had to tell him about the scene they’d found in his bedroom before he got home and found the bed completely stripped and the room cleared out. As sympathetically as she could, she told him about the wine glasses and the state of the bedroom when the police had arrived this afternoon.
Noble’s tone changed instantly from wrenching grief to cursing outrage, transforming Carrie from saint to whore in seconds. Not that Amy countenanced Carrie’s apparent infidelity, but Matt’s lightning fast switch turned her stomach. It made her wonder how much his explosive temper had to do with their marital problems.
When Amy told him they needed a DNA sample from him to compare with what they might find on the sheets, Noble swore at her, too. Tiring of his antics, she ordered him to appear at HQ tomorrow or they’d send a patrol car to pick him up. When he’d continued to yell, she hung up on him.
So much for the grief-stricken husband. No wonder she had such a dim view of marriage, with all the lousy examples that seemed to fall into her lap.
A few minutes later, the uber-efficient Lisa Kennedy, Cramer’s administrative secretary, rounded up the full squad and herded them into the central meeting room for the command performance with the bosses. As usual, Cramer waited in his office until Lisa told him the throng had arrived. Out of sorts from the nasty call with Noble and already anxious to get back to work, Amy kept her head down, going over her notes.
She snapped her gaze up as she heard DeSean mutter “Holy shit!”
Cramer, still looking GQ perfect this late in the day, had just entered the room with Will Knight a half step behind. Right beside the commander, with an uncomfortable smile on his handsome face, stood Luke Beckett.
Criss, tabarnak, hostie , Amy mumbled under her breath in a tripleheader of sacrilege. What the hell was he doing here? Another goddamn celebrity visit?
Washington and Poushinsky jumped to their feet, doing a Three Stooges routine to get to Beckett first.
“Hey, Luke, I’m Alex Poushinsky,” her partner said as he stuck out his hand.
Obviously Beckett needed no introduction to the boys. He shook Poushinsky’s hand, then gave him a fist bump. Poushinsky’s grin threatened to split open his face. Then Washington did the same damn thing, getting a fist bump from Beckett, too. Amy r
olled her eyes toward Ryan, who reciprocated. Since the fawning men stayed standing, jabbering at Beckett, Ryan finally rose and Amy and Scarpelli followed.
Cramer nodded toward the three women. “Luke, I’d like you to meet Detectives Jenn Ryan, Adrianna Scarpelli, and Amy Robitaille. Detectives, this is Luke Beckett. For those of you who might have lived under a rock and haven’t heard of him, Luke’s one of the greatest baseball players to have ever put on a uniform. As much as it pains me to say that,” he said, deadpan. “I already have a hard enough time dealing with his ego.” He gave Luke a playful poke in the arm that made Amy want to throw up.
“Great to meet all of you, detectives,” Beckett said, grasping each of their hands in turn, leaving Amy until last. She shook his hand reluctantly, disengaging as soon as was polite.
“Detective Robitaille and I met yesterday morning at the Children’s Hospital.” Beckett dropped his male-bonding grin in favor of a warm smile that sent a zing of anxiety shooting down her spine. He had jeans on again, but today sported a red Washington Nationals tee shirt that stretched tight across his brawny chest. Out of the corner of her eye, Amy caught Ryan staring directly at his pecs, probably admiring the hard ridges so clearly evident under the tight shirt.
Her odd little bout of anxiety quickly turned to irritation. She thought Ryan had more discipline and better sense than that.
“Mr. Beckett,” she replied tersely.
“Luke,” he corrected. His charming smile threatened to dazzle her. Good thing she was immune to that kind of male crap. Gabe Labrash had seen to that. It was all just macho flash, with barely the depth of one coat of paint.
And what the hell was Beckett doing here at her briefing?
“Take your seats,” Cramer ordered. When they had all arranged themselves around the table, Cramer faced Poushinsky and Beckett ended up directly across from Amy. Just what she needed—constant eye contact with the baseball hero. Right on cue, he gave her another lazy smile. She angled her body to her left, fixing her gaze on the commander.