Lethal Confessions

by V. K. Sykes

  He raked a hand impatiently through his hair. “How did we get into this discussion, anyway? We were talking about you. About how your parents didn’t want you to be a cop.”

  “I guess we were,” she agreed, not unhappy to be shifting the conversation away from a subject obviously too uncomfortable for him. For both of them. The last thing she needed was more distracting feelings for Beckett.

  “So, how do they feel about it now? Worried? Proud? Both?”

  Amy couldn’t help a wry smile. “Now they just ride me to be the best damn cop in the country.” As soon as she’d joined the Sheriff’s Office, her father in particular had relentlessly—and unnecessarily—pushed her to fast track her way to a detective shield. “My father was the toughest, most demanding son of a bitch on the Montreal force until the day he retired. When he realized I was going to be a cop no matter what he said, he—”

  “Wanted you to be the toughest son of a bitch on the force, just like him,” Beckett said, finishing her thought.

  Amy smiled. “Yeah, absolutely. Now, how about we talk about the weather? Or even baseball, if we must.” She couldn’t believe she’d let the conversation turn so personal, so dangerous. “Anything but our families or the case.”

  In minutes, so much between them had changed. Beckett still looked and acted like a hot, studly guy intent on having his way with her, but he’d allowed his defenses to come down long enough for her to see the man hurting inside. That much they had in common, and she knew that kind of bond could run very deep.

  For a moment, Amy even found herself on the verge of blurting out her pain to a man who was a virtual stranger. She had to summon up all her discipline to keep that story firmly locked up deep in her heart, exactly where it belonged.

  22

  * * *

  Friday, July 30

  9:50 p.m.

  Luke Beckett was no stereotype.

  Amy sat in her car frozen with embarrassment as she watched Beckett stride across the parking lot to HQ.

  At the restaurant, she’d been surprised by the depth of emotion when he talked about his sister. That was probably more a reflection on her ingrained cynicism when it came to men than anything else, though. She should have stuck to the plan to avoid heavy topics—especially their tortured family histories—but she’d found herself consumed with curiosity to know more about him.

  Even worse, she’d wanted to tell him things. About herself and about her twin sister.

  On the way back to HQ, she couldn’t seem to keep her mouth shut and she’d finally asked him straight out what happened to Kate. He’d deflected the question, but that only made her more determined to get it out of him. Amy wanted to believe it was because she was cop, and always wanted to get to the bottom of the mysteries people tried to conceal from her. But that was a load of crap and she knew it. So, she’d asked him again, fully expecting he would tell her to mind her own damn business. She would have done the same, just as she did whenever anyone tried to talk to her about Ariane’s murder. Maybe, in some screwed up way, her need to know what had happened to his sister had as much to do with the legacy of her relationship with Ariane as it did with her inexplicable need to know Beckett’s secrets.

  But instead of rebuffing her, he’d surprised her again. As they parked in the HQ lot, Beckett had inhaled a deep breath and told her the story in a flat, controlled voice. Staring straight ahead into the halogen-lit glow of the night, he described how Kate had been taken hostage and later murdered by a terrorist cell in Baghdad. He’d been proud of her courage in taking the Iraq assignment, and it had barely crossed his radar screen that she could be killed because Kate was too smart to let that happen. For Beckett, she’d been invincible, the rock in his life. A tough, savvy survivor who would never make the kind of mistake that would get herself murdered.

  Beckett kept it short, and spare on details. When he’d finished, he didn’t even look at her. He simply got out of the car and walked away, not even bothering to glance back to see if she was following. So, Amy had just sat there, hating herself for pressuring him into revealing the gaping wound in his soul.

  Asshole. She should have just Googled Kate Beckett’s name. Apologies weren’t her forte, but she had to suck it up and do it. Beckett deserved better from her than he was getting so far.

  Sighing, she got out of her car and trudged across the parking lot, pressed down by the brutal heat and humidity of the July night. When she reached the Floor, the click of her shoes echoed through the nearly-deserted space. Only two detectives from the late shift remained. Plus Beckett, already plunked down at her desk, his head dipped to peer at her monitor. He was already immersed in his task of fixing her pathetic first shot at a press statement. After that scene in the car, she was surprised he could shift mental gears so rapidly.

  A disciplined man.

  She stopped beside her cubicle, hung up her jacket and looked down at him. His long fingers moved smoothly over the keyboard as he tapped out words with surprising speed.

  “Beckett, stop for a minute.” He ignored her, so Amy put her hand on his shoulder. “Please.”

  He pulled away from the keyboard and swiveled the chair until his eyes met hers. They held no obvious anger, but his expression seemed too carefully controlled. “What, Robitaille?”

  She couldn’t help a wistful smile as she drew her hand away. “I thought it was going to be Amélie.”

  “You said only outside HQ. We’re not outside.”

  “Criss, do you always take everything so literally, Beckett?” she said impatiently. “I meant when other cops were within hearing distance.” She flicked her head toward Gomez and Hardisty, deep in conversation at the far end of the Floor. “Those guys aren’t.”

  “I guess I’m a literal kind of guy,” he replied with enough sarcasm to make her wince.

  Steeling herself, she launched into it. “Look, when I bugged you to talk about your sister, I was way out of line. I don’t know why I did it, and I’m really sorry.”

  Not exactly the smoothest mea culpa, but at least she meant what she said.

  He swung back to face the screen. “Forget it. For some reason I must have wanted to tell you. I don’t talk about something unless I want to.” He immersed himself again in the writing.

  Amy wasn’t so sure about that, but she couldn’t help a breath of relief escaping her lips. Beckett sounded sincere. She watched him work, her gaze lingering over his broad shoulders and his strong neck. She was shocked to find herself thinking how much she’d like to wrap her arms around those shoulders and nuzzle her face into that neck. Breathe in his clean, masculine scent like a drug. And, calice, where would that lead?

  Nowhere good was the answer.

  “You seem to be doing fine on this without me, so I’ll go call my sister,” Amy said, forcing herself to get away from him before she did something way beyond stupid. M.L. had sounded a little antsy on the voice mail message, so she was anxious to reach her tonight before her sister turned in.

  “I’ll have a draft for you in ten minutes,” he said without taking his eyes off the screen.

  He seemed distant and preoccupied. She’d apologized—sincerely, too—so if he wanted to give her the cold shoulder, why should she care?

  Pushing away something that felt too much like the sting of rejection, Amy went to Poushinsky’s desk and dialed M.L.’s number.

  * * *

  Luke was good and pissed. With Robitaille, sure, but even more with himself. He’d opened up to her like a girl at a pajama party, spilling his guts about things he’d never talked to anybody about. Kate’s murder had hardly been a secret. The gruesome details had been splashed over every fucking newspaper and cable news show in the world. But he didn’t talk about it. He’d barely even said a word to the shrink the Army had made him see. And even the shrink had given up, knowing he wasn’t going to pry much out of Luke’s closed-up heart.

  That heart had already been toughened by the loss of his parents, and Kate’s murder
had turned it to something like case-hardened steel. Sometimes, he thought it was simply a mechanical device implanted in him to pump blood, and nothing more. At least it had felt that way almost every day of his life since he got the call from a national news network asking for his reaction to his sister’s murder in Iraq. That was how he’d found out—a phone call from some dumbass reporter who didn’t think to check if someone in authority had notified the next-of-kin. At least the moron had had the sense not to give him the details. Fifteen minutes later, her editor at the press agency had called him. Kate’s throat had been slashed by the terrorists who had abducted her.

  As Luke stared at Robitaille’s monitor, caught by the ugly memories, for some reason Alicia Trent’s bright face suddenly popped into his brain. He could almost hear her high-pitched little voice, spouting all that baseball trivia. Alicia always made him smile, and made him feel like he actually had a human heart beating in his chest, not some lump of metal. Life after Kate had changed forever, but it had taken only a few visits to children’s hospitals to remind him that he still had a lot to live for. That he had a purpose, helping out the kids who’d been dealt such a rotten hand in life.

  Still, he never talked to anyone about Kate. That was his rule. But Robitaille had gotten to him, pouncing like a goddamn terrier until he suddenly and inexplicably told her. Sure, he got that her probing was likely more about her own tragic past than about his—at least unconsciously. Kellen had told him that Robitaille’s sister had been murdered years ago, although thankfully he had kept the details spare. And though Luke was obviously more than sympathetic to her pain, that didn’t explain why he had broken his own rule and spilled his guts to her.

  Especially since Robitaille hadn’t responded in kind. She clearly didn’t want to talk about her sister or her family, even though she’d pushed him to reveal all.

  He refocused on the words on the screen, but anger and shame kept reasserting themselves. He never blabbed, but he had blabbed to Robitaille. Either he was losing it, or the woman had really gotten into his head. He could tell she was hurt by his brusque acceptance of her apology, but right now he needed space. Not for all time—he wanted her too much for that. But for tonight, anyway. Tonight, he would keep his distance.

  * * *

  Amy wanted to talk to her sister about the baseball killer but, as usual, the conversation started out with M.L. doing all the talking. Marie-Louise Wilson, née Robitaille, seemed to like nothing better than to inundate her big sister with a laundry list of her husband’s latest misdemeanors. As much as Amy loved M.L., her impulsive sibling had made her bed at the age of nineteen with the sexy but feckless Justin Wilson, prospective baseball superstar. Now she had to live with it, if for no other reason than for the sake of her son, the completely lovable, four year-old Cooper.

  “Justin stank the park out last night,” M.L. whined. “He went oh for three, fanned twice, and made a stupid error that cost the team a run. And on top of all that, in his last at bat, he thought the pitcher threw too close to his head. So, like a moron, he charged the mound and started a bench-clearing brawl. By the time he got home he was already drunk out of his mind, like every other time he screws up. He yelled at me, then I yelled at him, then he stomped out and slammed the door so hard it woke Cooper up. It took me almost half an hour to settle him back down. Then Justin strolled back in at three in the morning and wanted to have sex! I mean, I thought I was going to murder him, honest to God, Amy. I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” she finished, out of breath.

  It was like listening to a tape loop. How many times had M.L. dumped a similar story on her? She and Justin were a train wreck, but she wouldn’t even think of leaving the man.

  “He didn’t hit you, did he?” Amy always asked that question. So far, their arguments had remained non-violent, but if Justin ever hit M.L., Amy would either arrest him or rearrange his face. Maybe both.

  M.L. sighed. “You know he doesn’t do that. He just yells and knocks the furniture around. But he’s so irresponsible. I never know when he’s coming home. All he wants to do is hang out at bars with his buddies, and when I call him on it, he accuses me of nagging him. Nagging? God, I should whack him over the head with a frying pan or something.”

  Amy chuckled. “I’d hate to have to arrest you, M.L.”

  “No jury would convict me for conking that overgrown adolescent,” M.L. huffed.

  “I know you’re tired of hearing this, but don’t you think it would be better to consider leaving him before you commit a felony?”

  “Ha, ha. You’re a riot,” her sister grumped. “You know, Amy, you really could be a little more emotionally supportive.”

  Tabarnak. More emotionally supportive? Was that what her goofball therapist had told her to say?

  “Chère,” Amy said, putting on a syrupy voice, “you know I’ll always be here for you. But I can’t give your marriage an extreme makeover. You have to do that for yourself. Or leave Justin.”

  “That’s all you ever say. Leave Justin. Divorce Justin. And Mom and Dad are just as bad. It’s always the same old song and I’m sick of it. I don’t know why I even bother to talk to you. I get more support from this cup of coffee I’m drinking. You really need to get over yourself, Amy, and start listening to what I’m saying. You’re my big sister, and I should be able to depend on you to be there for me.”

  Amy dearly loved her little sister, but she really didn’t have the emotional stamina to deal on a daily basis with M.L.’s hang-ups and her twisted view of their relationship. Especially after a day like today. “Calice, can you put a lid on it for one minute? Didn’t you pay any attention to the news today?”

  “You don’t have to swear at me, Amy. That mouth of yours,” she snorted. “And, no, I haven’t turned on the news. I’ve got a kid to look after, you know. I don’t have time for that stuff.”

  “Just as well,” Amy said, suppressing her growing frustration. “It’s better that you hear this from me, anyway.”

  “Hear what?” M.L.’s voice rose in pitch. “Amy, you’re starting to scare me.”

  “Sorry, Chère. But there was a murder yesterday you might have heard about. The body was found in Okeeheelee Park.”

  “Uh, huh,” M.L. said tentatively. “Justin told me about that.”

  “We’ve identified the victim as Carrie Noble. Her husband plays for the Jupiter Hammerheads.”

  M.L. coughed loudly, as if she had something stuck in her throat. “Oh, my God...that’s...that’s just awful. Wow. I don’t know her, but I’ve seen Matt Noble pitch. Oh, the poor guy.” M.L., always emotional, was already practically sobbing.

  “She was the second wife of a ballplayer to be murdered in this area in the past month. You remember the one up near Lakeland?”

  M.L.’s snuffling and coughing suddenly stopped, and the line went quiet.

  Amy sighed, hating that she had to freak her baby sister out. “It gets worse. Another body was found in Dickinson State Park early this morning.”

  M.L. let out a moan, and when she spoke again, her voice trembled so badly that Amy could hardly understand her. “Amy, are you s..s..saying that…the same person…is…” Her voice trailed off.

  “We don’t know anything for sure yet.” Amy searched for words that could soothe her sister’s fear. “It doesn’t mean there’s a pattern that’s going to continue. We’re looking for some kind of connection that links the three victims.”

  “God, this is really scary.”

  “Don’t panic, honey,” Amy soothed. “You just need to be aware. Be aware and take extra precautions. Keep the doors and windows locked twenty-four seven. If Justin’s not at home, don’t open the door for anybody you don’t know. Not under any circumstances. And don’t go out by yourself any more than you absolutely have to.”

  “I wish Justin was here,” M.L. whimpered. “I’m sure the game’s over by now, but he’ll be out drinking again, especially after what happened last night.”

  “Cr
iss, just call him,” Amy said through clenched teeth. “Tell him to get his no-good ass home because you need him.”

  “You’re right. I’m going to call him right now,” her sister sniffed.

  “Good. And if he doesn’t come soon, call me back. I’ll go to the bar and drag him home to you in a squad car.”

  M.L. chuckled through her sniffles. “You would, too.”

  “Count on it, Chère.”

  “Amy, I’m sorry I dumped on you.”

  “Forget it. Just call him, and take care of yourself and my godson.”

  “I will.”

  “Love you. Bye.” Amy hung up.

  When she returned to her cubicle, Beckett was standing there with his arms crossed, looking like he was itching to leave. His dark eyes raked over her body as she approached. She clenched her teeth as her traitorous inner muscles tightened in response.

  “It’s done,” he said, nodding at the monitor screen. “Now I’m going for a beer.”

  “Thanks,” she mumbled as he strode away without saying goodbye.

  Amy sank into her chair, sighing at the comforting warmth that remained from Beckett’s body. Suddenly she felt very much alone. She told herself she was glad to be rid of him.

  Right.

  She started to read his draft, but it took awhile before she was able to absorb a single word.

  23

  * * *

  Saturday, July 31

  8:15 a.m.

  Amy stared at the computer screen, squinting as she made the map of Florida bigger and smaller and then bigger again. The killer had struck in the Lakeland, West Palm, and Jupiter areas so far, dumping the bodies within a half hour drive from where they’d been abducted. If the murderer was a player, chances were that he’d strike near the city where he was playing. She knew ballplayers had games almost every day during the season, so it didn’t seem plausible that the killer would be traveling all over the state. The logistics of that would be virtually impossible.