by V. K. Sykes
“As soon as we got confirmation that our victim was the wife of a baseball player, I contacted Luke,” Cramer said. “There’s got to be a baseball connection to these killings. They’re both baseball wives, and they had the same carved message. OUT could mean anything, but I take it to mean ‘out’ as opposed to ‘safe’. Like the guy’s a fucking umpire.”
An umpire .
Amy sucked in a startled breath. Of course. The guy who controls the game. The guy who gets to decide who’s safe and who’s out.
But what the hell was this killer’s particular game?
“We need somebody on our investigative team with in-depth insight into baseball,” Cramer continued. “Someone who knows the game inside out. Someone with connections. Nobody—and I mean nobody—could play that role more effectively than Luke Beckett. That’s why I’ve asked him to join our team for this investigation. And I’m happy to say he’s agreed.”
Jaws dropped around the table, and Amy had to stifle a gasp. What the hell was Cramer thinking? Not only was he bringing in an outside consultant without talking first to his lead detective, the so-called expert was practically an A-list celebrity. She couldn’t even begin to predict how this might screw up the dynamics of a squad that had problems gelling in the first place.
She looked at Beckett. His expression had morphed into impassivity, his high, strong cheekbones and square jaw seeming to convey a tough and indomitable sense of will. He returned her look and then, unbelievably, winked. It was so lightning quick that only she caught it.
Amy swallowed, her mouth going suddenly dry. With a silent curse, she diverted her gaze to the commander, furious at how off-kilter Beckett made her feel.
“This will be a whole new experience for me,” Beckett said in that deep, southern and, yes, sexy drawl of his. “I’m not exactly sure what I’ll be able to bring to your team, but I’ll tell you this. I’m prepared to do everything I can to help catch the bastard who killed those two women.” He gave a self-deprecating half-smile before continuing. “And I’ll try not to get in your way too much.”
“Fantastic,” Poushinsky gushed like a pimply teenager. “Welcome aboard, man.” Washington nodded like a bobble head doll. Even Adrianna seemed charmed, giving Beckett a smile that would have made her dentist proud. Only Ryan seemed less than ecstatic, having obviously gotten over her initial reaction to Beckett’s sex appeal. Amy was thankful for that. Ryan flirting with Beckett would have made her run for the nearest bathroom.
“We need to take full advantage of Luke’s expertise,” Cramer expounded in an annoyingly solemn voice, “and that means he needs to be involved in every aspect of the investigation. I want you to keep him in the loop on everything. And I mean everything. If you’re having meetings, I want him there. Am I making myself clear?” His heavy brows almost closed together as he frowned. “Robitaille, he rides with you.”
Amy resisted the urge to pound her head into the boardroom table. Cramer actually expected her, the lead investigator, to babysit a famous athlete in the middle of the most important case she’d ever had? The case that could make or break her career? What the hell did Luke Beckett know about police work, much less catching a serial murderer?
Cramer kept his gaze locked onto her, a warning clear in his eyes.
“Perfectly clear, sir,” she answered with all the professionalism she could muster.
What choice did she have? If her boss thought an insider’s knowledge of baseball would help the squad, she’d just have to make the best of it. If nothing else, Beckett’s contacts among the players and coaches might prove useful. She’d deal with it and make it work, like she did everything else in her life.
Amy stood up, giving Beckett another glance as she rounded the table. He was talking to Washington and Poushinsky, but she had the feeling he was tracking her every move, almost like a sniper with a bead on her.
As she brushed past the men, a voice in her head whispered that making the best of the situation with a man like Luke Beckett would not only be challenging, it might very well land her neck deep in a pile of trouble.
13
* * *
Thursday, July 29
4:50 p.m.
Even though that sexy little Robitaille had been bristling like a cornered porcupine during the squad meeting, Luke had no intention of giving up on the tough-girl detective. She’d almost choked when he walked into the room, and it had gone downhill from there. When Cramer announced that Luke would ride with her, he could practically hear the detective’s teeth grinding from across the table. Her cool demeanor at the hospital yesterday had been transformed into something close to hostility now.
He’d seen her type before, especially in the army. Professional warriors. Distrustful of civilians and resentful of their interference. Warriors saw people like him—consultants or specialists thrust into the middle of a combat situation—as nothing more than a drag on their team, something else to have to worry about instead of being able to focus one hundred percent on their mission. He could relate to that. And that was why he had no intention of getting in the squad’s way, much less causing anyone to have to worry about protecting him. He would do just fine protecting himself.
He glanced across the Homicide Floor at Robitaille. Even at this distance, she radiated all the warmth of a Klondike bar straight out of the freezer. That iciness only sealed his determination to discover what lurked beneath her frozen exterior. And he intended to start on that project right after his paperwork was processed, since Cramer had set up a one-on-one briefing for him with Robitaille. Of course, the case took priority, but they’d work together better if Luke could at least get on friendly terms with her.
Cramer’s assistant was getting him an ID card and taking care of all the bullshit paperwork. Though he’d be paid as a consultant, he’d made it clear to Cramer that his fee would be exactly one dollar, no matter how long it took. Lisa had already set him up with a desk on the inner wall of the Floor, near the analysts who provided research support to the investigators. He had a pint-sized wooden desk, a new-looking computer, and a password—though he wouldn’t have access to the whole PBSO system—plus a pile of office paraphernalia he would no doubt never use.
He had spent the last several minutes fumbling around with the unfamiliar computer and trying to organize those parts of his brain not occupied with Robitaille. He’d never worked in an office in his life. It seemed surreal. It was surreal. And surprisingly uncomfortable. The Floor wasn’t totally jammed, but he already felt kind of claustrophobic. He’d been at home on playing fields and composed on battlefields, but a bustling, crowded office gave him the creeps.
Luke glanced across the Floor, wondering how much longer Robitaille would be on the phone. She’d had the damn thing glued to her ear the whole time Lisa was setting up his space and giving him his orientation. Robitaille’s cubicle was on the other side of the room, one of only a handful that had a window. A double row of detectives separated them, but he could still see her clearly around the corner of the blue panel that divided her work space from the aisle.
God, she was nothing if not intense. It showed even on the phone, as she constantly gestured with her hands in typical French style, full of verve and emotion. Totally unlike the buttoned-down coolness she’d shown toward him so far.
He leaned back in his chair, watching her, taking in every captivating expression, every unconsciously graceful movement of her lithe body. Finally, she hung up, pushed back her chair, and looked directly toward him. She gave him a tiny nod, as if he’d just been granted an audience with the queen. Unable to resist giving her chain a little yank, Luke gave her a good old boy grin and strolled across the Floor until he stood over her. He tried to look into her eyes, not stare down at her nicely-rounded breasts, but it was a losing battle.
Well, crap. He was a guy.
Her eyes narrowed and her pretty mouth pulled into a grim line. “Grab a chair,” she said, glancing across the aisle toward her neighbor’s empty c
ubicle. Luke snagged that detective’s chair and dragged it over.
“You can keep the briefing short,” he said. “Kellen already gave me a lot of the background.” Using her boss’s first name like that would serve as a gentle reminder that he was here for a reason.
“Good,” she snapped, avoiding his eyes. “Saves me time.”
Her bad temper made him want to grin.
Robitaille’s ten minute briefing was clear, concise and, as far as he could determine, pretty thorough. When she’d finished, he asked her the same question he’d put to Cramer at lunch. “Have you checked which teams played in Lakeland and here on the nights of the murders?”
“Hell, yeah.” Her voice was laden with sarcasm as she reached for a note pinned to a strip at the top of the divider that separated her desk from that of the next detective. “Poushinsky got it. On June twenty-ninth, the evening before Krista Shannon’s murder, the Lakeland Flying Tigers played the Palm Beach Cardinals in Lakeland. Shannon’s husband, Kevin Kasinski, plays for the Lakeland team. And last evening, the Palm Beach Cardinals played the Tampa Yankees at Roger Dean Stadium in Jupiter.”
He raised his eyebrows at the obvious connection, even though it surely wouldn’t be that easy. “So, the Cardinals were in the area of both murders on the evenings before the killings,” he said. “That sounds like a pretty good place to start.”
“I knew you were more than just a pretty face,” she replied in a sarcastic tone.
He frowned at the low blow. He got that she was pissed off over Cramer forcing him onto her team, but something else seemed to be going on. Something personal.
“Look,” he said, edging deeper into the Louisiana drawl that had a habit of reappearing when he was annoyed. “I’m not blind or stupid. You seem to have a problem with me for some reason. That’s your right, but we’re going to have to work together—close together—for the next little while, Detective. So, why don’t we try to get off on the right foot?” He leaned back in his chair. “How about we start by exchanging cell numbers?”
Robitaille squared her shoulders and straightened her back into a rigid posture. He knew she’d probably rather eat her cell phone than give him her number, but there was no way she could refuse. Not after what Kellen said. She reached into an inside pocket of her jacket and pulled out a white and green business card with the PBSO badge in the top right corner. She scratched a number on the back and handed it to him.
“Thanks,” he said, pocketing the card. He took her pen and wrote his cell number on a post-it note he took from the little dispenser on her desk. “There. That was easy, wasn’t it? Now, why don’t we take the next logical step and start calling each other by our first names? Like I said before, just call me Luke.”
She glanced down at her phone and clicked a few keys as if she couldn’t be bothered to reply. Finally, she raised her smoky-gray, irate eyes to meet his. “Thanks, but I’d prefer to stick to Mr. Beckett. Or maybe just Beckett. As for me, Detective Robitaille will do fine. Or just Robitaille, if six syllables is too big a mouthful for you.”
No doubt about it, Detective Amy Robitaille had a bug up her pretty posterior. Too bad she didn’t realize that he was more than up to the challenge she was throwing his way.
Luke shook his head, making sure his expression was suitably mournful. “Okay, Robitaille and Beckett it is.” He leaned back even farther and propped his feet against the base of her desk, getting comfortable and sending a message that he wasn’t going anywhere soon. “Do you eat, Robitaille?”
Those eyes flashed again. Angry or startled, he couldn’t tell.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A simple one,” he drawled. “Yes or no will do fine.”
“Yes, but only when absolutely necessary,” she said, sounding exasperated.
“A high-powered crime fighter like you needs to keep her strength up. And since both of us have to eat, why don’t we try doing it together? That way we can discuss the case some more, and maybe de-stress a little at the same time.”
She looked horrified, her mouth dropping open just enough for him to glimpse her pink tongue. “You’re actually asking me out to dinner?”
He made a big show of rolling his eyes. “Yes, but not a date, for God’s sake. Just dinner. Pushy can come, too, if that would make you feel more comfortable.”
She shook her head, a frown creasing her brow. “I think not, Beckett. I have a serial killer to catch. And for you to start off this…whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing…by hitting on me, well, it’s unprofessional.”
“We have a serial killer to catch, Robitaille,” he said, maintaining his relaxed posture. “I’m just suggesting we grab a bite to eat. And it’s not unprofessional to be human, you know.” He got to his feet. “Thanks for the briefing.”
As he turned away, she got up, muttering under her breath. “Hold on a minute.”
He glanced over his shoulder, giving her a slow smile. “Dinner sound good after all?”
She looked irritated but resigned. “Poushinsky and I are driving up to Bartow tomorrow morning to meet with the Polk County detectives about the Shannon case. I heard what the captain said about you riding along, so, you’re welcome to come if you want to. We’re leaving from here at eight-thirty.”
The way she sprang that on him now, as he was leaving, made him think she might have been planning to ignore the boss’s directive before suddenly changing her mind. Gutsy. Kellen Cramer wasn’t the kind of guy whose orders you ignored.
He turned fully around. She stood with her hands on her slim hips, looking fierce yet somehow unsure of herself. It was an intriguing combination.
Luke smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it, Detective.”
14
* * *
Thursday, July 29
5:20 p.m.
Amy glared at Beckett’s broad shoulders and admittedly fine ass as he strolled from the Homicide Floor. Did that big lunkhead actually think she’d swoon over his dinner invitation? Who did he think she was, some sports groupie? Poushinsky and Washington could drool like idiots, but she had no intention of letting Beckett get one step closer to her or to the investigation than she had to.
Fuming, she dropped back into her chair, still trying to get past the bitter pill Cramer had made her swallow by foisting Beckett on her. Until Beckett had turned his back to leave, she’d been determined to not take him along to Polk County. Riding around the city with him in tow was bad enough, but she didn’t have the stomach to put up with a dilettante on the long drive. And she sure as hell didn’t want to have to explain his embarrassing presence to the detectives up there.
She sighed, propping an elbow on the desk and resting her forehead on her fist. Who was she kidding? The Polk guys would probably be just as bowled over to have a baseball god descend on them as Poushinsky and Washington had been.
For some reason, though, his clipped remark about being human had caught her up short. Not enough to change her mind about dinner. That wasn’t going to happen. But enough to make her reconsider inviting him along on the road trip.
Besides, Cramer would be pissed if she shut Beckett out, so taking him to Bartow seemed like a good compromise.
At least with Poushinsky in the car, Beckett would lay off the come-ons—if that’s what they were. Those two could natter on about sports while she tuned them out and focused on the case. In fact, she’d suggest to Poushinsky that he drive and have Beckett sit up front with him. She’d get comfy in the back and drink her coffee and think in peace.
“Poushinsky still around?”
Amy jerked in her seat, startled by Cramer’s deep voice from behind her. He didn’t often come over to the Floor—usually he’d send Lisa to fetch one of the detectives. She swung her chair around to face him.
“No, sir.”
His slightly disapproving look didn’t surprise her. Cramer never left before seven. While Amy often worked long past the end of her regular shift without claiming overtime, Poushinsky
liked his free time and had no qualms letting the supervisors know that.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s you I wanted, anyway, Robitaille. I contacted the BSU in Quantico after our meeting. Just to give them a heads up. They need us to fill out a VICAP questionnaire before they can get moving on a profile.”
That was standard procedure. Amy had studied the Behavioral Sciences Unit and their history of profiling after Ariane was murdered. Profiling sometimes proved useful, but it sure as hell wasn’t the magic bullet that TV shows often portrayed.
“And when I say us, you know who I mean,” he added dryly.
“I’ll get right on it,” Amy said with satisfaction. Even if she had wanted to have dinner with Beckett, she would have had to bail. The FBI’s questionnaire, with close to two hundred questions, would force her to detail every bit of information they knew about Carrie Noble’s murder, and even get into a fair amount of speculation. The Feds were nothing if not thorough, at least when it came to paperwork.
“Good. I know you’re quick, but let’s ratchet it up one more notch, okay?”
“I’ll do my best, Captain.”
Cramer started to turn away, but uncharacteristically hesitated. “I don’t want to keep you from your work, Robitaille, but I think we should take a couple of minutes in my office.”
Summoned to the principal’s office again? Twice in one day, a record for her.
Sighing, Amy picked up her jacket and slipped it on. It might be late in the day, but Cramer still looked starched and pressed, so by God she’d follow suit as best she could.
“I watched your reactions in the meeting, Amy,” Cramer said as he closed his office door behind her. “Closely.”
Surprised that he’d called her by her first name, she sank into a chair before he invited her to sit. The commander had never called her Amy before. Was he about to tear a strip off her?