Lethal Confessions

by V. K. Sykes

  Washington shook his head. “He couldn’t see that kind of detail. Remember, by the time the killer stood under the porch light, Kyle was across the street inside his house.”

  “It fits Kozak’s description,” Amy said. “But it’s pretty damn vague.”

  “It was damn late for a flower delivery.” Ryan interjected. “Jesus, who opens their door at that time of night when there’s a serial killer on the loose?”

  Amy had one theory. “Most people are trained to look for an ID card when somebody they don’t know shows up at the door. Maybe this guy had one.”

  “Yeah, anybody can get a fake ID card,” Ryan scoffed. “He might have pretended to be an undercover cop, even.”

  Amy took that as a jest. “What if it was a team ID? What if he was dressed in a Cardinals team shirt and cap, since that’s Harrison’s team, and had a card that looked real to Megan?”

  “Maybe it was real,” DeSean said.

  “No.” Amy shook her head. “Megan would have recognized him if he was really with the Cardinals, don’t you think? It’s a small organization. Besides, the killer wouldn’t risk identifying himself if he was legit, even if she didn’t recognize him. What if she’d refused to open the door and reported him to the team instead? He’d be caught out.” She turned to Poushinsky.” Can you get over to the stadium right away and talk to the general manager or whoever else you can find who’s not on the road with the team? Get a list of every last person who’s been issued a card, at least for the past couple of years.”

  Washington broke in. “Hold on before you go. Jenn and I got one more thing from Kyle, and it’s a big one.”

  “What?” Amy more or less snapped.

  “When the delivery guy first got out of his car, and before he reached into the back seat for the flowers, Kyle said he took something out of his pocket. The next time he glanced over, the guy was pressing something against his hand—some kind of cloth, he thought. The guy kept the cloth pressed to his hand until he got to Harrison’s driveway, then shoved it in his pocket.”

  Poushinsky whistled. “Maybe he got cut? Tell me he left some blood stains, man. Please tell me that.”

  Washington grinned. “We got some deputies, closed the road down, and called in CSU. They found a trace of blood on the road surface right away, exactly where Kyle said the guy got out of his car.”

  Amy couldn’t believe it. In the darkness, juggling the flowers, the killer must have scratched or cut his hand and not noticed that a tiny amount of blood had dropped onto the pavement. Or maybe he did notice, but thought it was too little to be found, or would never linked to him, anyway.

  “As soon as they’ve got the DNA profile,” Washington finished, “I’ll get Forensics to send it to the CODIS lab for a possible match.”

  The combined local, state and federal DNA databases contained well over five million offender profiles. With luck, they’d get a firm identification.

  “You know DNA takes quite a while,” Knight cautioned.

  “Yeah, but in the meantime, we’ll visit our friendly local florists,” Poushinsky said.

  “It’s more likely he picked up the flowers at a supermarket, or even from one of those roadside stands,” Ryan said. “It’ll take forever to get to every single place where they sell flowers, even in just this county.”

  “True enough,” Amy said. “But we’re talking a bouquet in a vase, and in my book that means there’s a pretty decent chance they came from a florist. Even so, the killer could have brought them from a shop a hundred miles or more away. So, let’s start with the Jupiter area and branch out until we’ve covered the whole eastern part of the county. Then we’ll move on to Broward, Martin, and St. Lucie counties if we have to. This is priority one, guys. We’ll contact every single florist shop employee with the description the kid gave us. Especially if the killer was wearing the same tee shirt and baseball cap when he bought the flowers, somebody will probably remember him.”

  Knight nodded. “Jenn, get the analysts to compile the list of florists, and then divide it into as many segments as you need in order for the immediate area to get done by tonight. As soon as you can, give Robitaille, Poushinsky, and Scarpelli a list they can start working on. And I’ll take one, too.”

  The detectives rose, the uptick in energy palpable. This was the break they’d needed. But Amy could see that they all felt the pressure that was ratcheting up by the second. They had to capitalize on this lead fast, before yet another young woman was slaughtered.

  47

  * * *

  Wednesday, August 4

  3:05 p.m.

  Luke had spent almost the whole day at the Children’s Hospital, most of it with Alicia, and in the afternoon had pressed Dr. Halperin for more information on the girl’s upcoming surgery. Surprisingly, she had complied, giving him an almost incomprehensible explanation of the some of the finer points of pediatric heart surgery, complete with references to a replica of a child’s heart on her desk. As for the prognosis, she said she was guardedly optimistic, but Luke wasn’t quite sure what to make of that other than to be worried as hell.

  Later, he’d spent more time with the social worker. Karen Golden had gone over in detail what it would be like to have full-time responsibility for an eight year-old with a grave medical condition. He appreciated her honest assessment, but nothing she said shook his determination. Once he’d made up his mind about adopting Alicia, hell would have to freeze and thaw ten times over before he’d wimp out. She needed him, and that’s all there was to it.

  Alicia was bouncing back from her latest blast of meds. Today, she’d made Luke laugh by recounting the antics of his two Miami Dolphin buddies who’d visited her the previous afternoon. He and Alicia had shared lunch and had a good day together, but he’d kept his mouth shut about the possible adoption. It didn’t make sense to say anything until he had at least some preliminary indication from the state authorities. Alicia didn’t need any more damage to her heart or spirit.

  In early afternoon, he’d heard his phone beep with an incoming text, but ignored it. When he finally read the message as he was leaving the hospital, he stopped cold in the middle of the entrance hall, half-stunned.

  Another body found. Meet at HQ at three .

  Still edgy and frustrated over his sexual encounter with Robitaille, he’d planned on skipping HQ again today. At this point, it didn’t seem like there was a lot he could do to help move the case forward, and he figured the detectives needed some space. But another murder meant new clues and more follow up. The fact that she’d sent him the text herself meant something, too. The team leader wanted him there.

  When he glanced at his watch, he let out a sharp groan that startled a passing nurse. It was already after three. At that time of day, it could take nearly an hour to get up to West Palm. He dialed Robitaille’s cell but had to settle for her voice mail.

  * * *

  Beckett charged onto the Floor, making a beeline for her desk. Amy couldn’t help staring at him as her pulse banged in throat. The last time she’d seen him—as she fled his house—he’d been wearing only sweat shorts. Her gaze seemed to cut right through his cream silk shirt and dark trousers, knowing exactly what lay underneath that smooth exterior—a hard, tanned body rippling with muscle and power. She’d fought an unsuccessful battle for the better part of two days to repress her lust—and, yes, her feelings—for Luke Beckett. Now, as he stopped beside her, every cell in her body called out to him.

  “You missed the meeting,” she said sharply, fighting her wayward control.

  He grimaced. “Sorry. I was at the hospital talking to Alicia and her doctors. I didn’t see your message until it was too late to make the meeting, but I got up here as fast as I could.”

  “Oh, okay,” she said, wincing at her lame response. Beckett wasn’t a cop. He had no obligation to spend all day, or any part of it, at HQ. Especially since that little girl needed him more than she did. “Don’t sweat it. I’ll fill you in on what you misse
d.”

  “The killer left his signature on the body, same as before?”

  Amy nodded. “Beat the crap out of her, too.”

  His eyes darkened with anger. “Have you been able to identify her?”

  “Calice, the freak identified her for us. He called in the location of the body and gave us the name of her husband. Heath Harrison, a pitcher with the Cardinals. He was in Missouri when it happened.”

  “Shit, I’ve met Harrison. He seems like a good kid.”

  “He’s on his way now, but the flight doesn’t get in until pretty late. He’ll identify the body in the morning.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Plenty.” She briefed him on Kyle Harrington’s information, trying to ignore how good it felt to have him back here. “Ryan’s getting a list of all the florist shops in the area. As soon as she has it, which should be any minute, we all hit the phones. Hopefully, we can get to most of them before they close for the night.”

  “Then Franks and the other Cardinals are in the clear now for sure, since they’re on the road and too far away.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, Dunedin’s too far.”

  Beckett blew out a breath. “Damn. I hoped it’d be Franks. But I guess that would have been too easy.”

  “This killer’s too smart to make it easy for us. But we’ll get him, Beckett. Oh, yeah—we’re going to get him.”

  48

  * * *

  Wednesday, August 4

  5:20 p.m.

  Amy had crossed off the first three names on her list of ten florists in Palm Beach County. Ryan had split the lists the analysts had compiled, giving Amy the northeastern communities, including Jupiter. She’d just started to dial the fourth number when Special Agent Vincent rushed over from his temporary cubicle at the opposite end of the Floor.

  “It looks like we might have a break on Kozak.” He was sweating, despite the air conditioning, and looked tense.

  Amy’s heart rate kicked up to a galloping beat. “What?”

  “I just got a call from the Salt Lake field office,” he said. “A girl in Billings, Montana called the local cops after we put the BOLO out on Kozak. She thinks he could be a guy she knew as Ben Kruse. They worked at the same McDonald’s for a few weeks.”

  She gaped at him. Billings, Montana? Her burst of elation started to fade.

  “How long ago?” she asked. “He’s not still in Billings, is he?” She prayed he’d have left at least six weeks ago. But would Kozak flee all the way to Montana, only to return to Florida a month or so later?

  Vincent shook his head. “We don’t know. The girl said she hadn’t seen him for over a month.”

  “The city cops are trying to find him?”

  “They’re on it, and we’re sending agents up from Salt Lake. They’ll get his address from McDonald’s and take it from there—and check with the airlines, trains and buses that service Billings. Believe me, those guys will pick up his trail fast if he’s split.”

  Amy had no doubt of that, not with the Bureau’s vast resources. The question was how long it would take to get results, and how many more women would die in the meantime.

  “Keep me posted, okay, Vincent? Any time, day or night. I mean that.”

  “You got it.”

  Amy thought about briefing the other detectives, as well as Knight and Cramer, but decided it could wait. The flowers were still their best lead, and she needed those lists cleared within hours.

  49

  * * *

  Wednesday, August 4

  6:05 p.m.

  “Robitaille! Beckett!” Poushinsky shouted as he bounced up from his chair. “I got it. Jodie’s Floral Creations in Riviera Beach. Let’s get moving.”

  Beckett bolted up and was striding toward her before Poushinsky finished his sentence. But Amy beat both of them down the stairs and had her car running before Poushinsky climbed into the front seat. Beckett slid into the rear.

  She threw the car into gear. “Where?”

  Poushinsky gave her the address of a strip mall on Broadway, near Blue Heron.

  Amy flipped on the strips of flashing lights in her front and rear windshields. Without the lights, it would take forever to get up to Blue Heron. Though the interstate would be rush hour jammed, it would still be quicker than slogging all the way up congested Dixie Highway and Broadway.

  “I talked to the owner, Jodie Jamison,” Poushinsky said. “She remembered a guy coming in late yesterday who sounds like he could be our guy.”

  Amy tossed him a quick grin, dodging past a line of cars on the freeway ramp as they pulled over to let her car through. “We’ll have to bring her back to HQ to work with Orosco.” Angel Orosco was their forensic artist. “Get hold of him, Poushinsky. If he’s already gone home, tell him to get his ass in by seven at the latest. I don’t give a damn what he’s doing.”

  “Sure, but I’ll put it a little more politely than that,” Poushinsky said.

  “I’m feeling like there’s no time to even be polite,” Amy said, though she acknowledged that her edges were increasingly rough. “Not with what we’re facing.”

  “I’m with you on that,” Beckett said, leaning forward until he was practically talking in her ear. “But I still think it makes no sense for the killer to have risked buying the flowers in a little shop. Why would he get them where he was likely to be remembered?”

  “He probably didn’t expect to be seen as he approached the house,” Amy said. “Or, at least not well enough to be identified. It was late and dark. If Kyle Harrington hadn’t been on the spot and been such an observant kid, he’d have been right.” She turned her head for a quick look over her shoulder at Beckett, who was still close enough that she could catch a faint scent of after shave or something. “Besides, a crappy bunch of supermarket flowers isn’t quite the ticket to get a woman to open her door to you.”

  Beckett gave her a lopsided grin. “Hey, I’ve seen some pretty nice stuff at Publix.”

  “Me, too,” Poushinsky chimed in.

  Amy rolled her eyes. “Men. Pathetic.”

  As Poushinsky punched numbers into his cell phone, Amy fought her rising hopes. They might get a useful description out of this lead, though there was a better than even chance that the killer would have disguised himself. Still, if Jodie Jamison had been sharp and had a good memory, her description would enable Orosco to produce a composite that would give them something solid to go on. Something that might even confirm or eliminate Brett Kozak as a prime suspect. She hoped like hell it would be the former.

  The trip up to Riviera Beach took barely ten minutes. Jodie’s Floral Creations occupied a small storefront in a relatively new strip mall. A Chinese food takeout flanked it on one side, with one of the ubiquitous nail salons on the other. She screeched the car to a stop directly in front of the shop, leaving her flashers on. The owner, clearly expecting them, didn’t blink when Amy barged in followed by two very large men.

  Jodie Jamison could have been anywhere between forty and fifty. Streaks of gray colored her dark brown, shoulder-length hair, but her trim figure and lively eyes gave her a relatively youthful appearance. Amy asked her to turn the sign in the front door to indicate the store was closed.

  She waited for Jodie to return to the counter before she handed her Brett Kozak’s hospital ID card. “Ms. Jamison, could this be the man you mentioned to Detective Poushinsky?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the small picture for a good thirty seconds. “Possibly,” she finally said, “but I’m really not sure if it’s the same man.” She handed the card back. “I’m sorry.”

  Amy bit back a curse. “He could have changed his appearance to some degree, ma’am. Could you take another long look, please?”

  Jamison nodded. “I understand.” She held her hand out, and Amy gave her back the card.

  A couple of moments later, Jodie said, “No, I can’t be sure. The man who was here yesterday wore sunglasses that he didn’t take off, and he ha
d a few days’ growth of beard so he looked quite different from this man. If I could have seen his eyes, or seen what he looked like clean-shaven, like this fellow...”

  There was no point in belaboring it. Orosco would capture everything the florist had to offer in his composite. “The forensic artist will be able to give you an approximation of how the man would look clean-shaven and without sunglasses.” Amy laid her palms flat on the counter and leaned into it. “What time did he come into the store?”

  “A few minutes before closing. About ten to eight, I suppose. I remember I was a little surprised to see someone come in that late. I usually don’t do much business after seven, and rarely get a last minute caller. Sometimes I wonder why I bother to stay open that extra hour.”

  “Do you remember the particular flowers he bought?”

  Jamison smiled, as if Amy had asked a dumb question. “Of course. He chose a bouquet I’d made up that afternoon. One of my favorites—blue iris and burgundy asters, orange Asiatic lilies, and some Belladonna delphiniums. Very colorful. Delightful, really.”

  “Sounds impressive,” Amy said. Truth be told, she’d be hard pressed to recognize most of those flowers without a label attached. “Like these?” She held up a photo the Crime Scene Unit had taken of the flowers and vase they’d found at Megan O’Neill’s earlier in the afternoon.

  “Yes,” the florist confirmed. “Those certainly look like mine. I venture to say they are the ones I sold that man yesterday.”

  Amy smiled. “That’s very helpful. I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re going to need you to come with us to the Sheriff’s Office to work with our forensic artist.”

  “Well, I didn’t expect I’d have to do that,” the woman said, a little flustered. “I don’t close until eight, and I can’t call my assistant to relieve me. She’s not available tonight.”