Lethal Confessions

by V. K. Sykes

  Bentall nodded. “He was in here a couple of weeks ago. More than once, I think. But I remember the one time because of what he bought.”

  “A Cardinals shirt and cap?” Beckett asked.

  “Yeah. Actually, a couple of each. But the funny thing was that he picked up a bunch of Hammerheads gear, too. That’s why I remember, because that doesn’t happen much at all. Usually folks are fans of one team, but not the other, right? It’s the home stadium for both teams, but I can’t remember anybody else buying stuff for both—at least not at the same time.” Bentall dropped his voice a notch. “What’s this guy done, anyway?”

  “He’s a suspect in a murder investigation,” Amy said.

  “Holy Jesus.” Wide-eyed, Bentall exhaled a big sigh. “Man, he seemed like a nice enough dude.”

  “Did you notice any tattoos?” Amy asked.

  “He had a couple on his arms. One was kind of weird, too. A big heart with a dagger through it. Somebody musta broke his heart, right?”

  Amy felt a jolt, but she clamped down on her reaction. “You’ve got an excellent memory, Jimmy. This is really helpful. Do you remember the other time or times you saw him in here?”

  The young man shook his head. “I don’t think so, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him around.”

  Beckett quirked an eyebrow. “Seen him somewhere other than here? What about at Chester’s bar?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “I go over there sometimes, but I just don’t know. Maybe it’ll come to me later.”

  Amy handed him her card. “You call me the minute you remember anything. Anything at all.”

  Bentall took the card. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  “You’ve helped plenty,” she said.

  After shaking hands with both clerks, she and Beckett headed to her car. As soon as he got in, Beckett smacked the flat of his hand against the dash. “The bastard is dressing in team gear, and probably showing the women fake team ID, too. He had Hammerheads’ gear for Carrie Noble and Ashley Rist, and Cardinals’ gear for Megan O’Neill.”

  No wonder the killer was getting past the victims’ defenses. They must have thought he knew their husbands, and maybe was associated with the team. “Let’s hope he doesn’t have a fucking closet full of team shirts and caps,” she growled.

  “Don’t bet on it. Can you find out where he’s getting his fake ID?”

  Amy tapped the steering wheel, thinking hard. “I suspect he’s cobbled together a do-it-yourself job, since I doubt that the women would be giving it close scrutiny. But who knows? All I know is that it would take a hell of a lot of manpower for us to go down that road, and I have a feeling it would be a dead end, anyway.”

  Beckett cursed. She could sense the burgeoning anger inside him. The composites had brought the killer closer to home, and he was obviously carrying the weight of trying to figure out where he’d seen the man before.

  She touched his arm. “We’re going to get him, Beckett. I can feel it. After that composite goes out in the media, it should just be a matter of time.”

  But how much time do we have before the next one?

  Beckett looked grim. “What if he’s grabbed another victim already? Or takes one tonight?”

  That was Amy’s nightmare. “Then I just hope every baseball player’s wife or girlfriend gets herself a goddamn gun and keeps it under her pillow until we catch this sick son of a bitch.”

  52

  * * *

  Wednesday, August 4

  8:40 p.m.

  The police composites looked a lot like him, but they weren’t perfect. Not by a long shot.

  They had the eyes all wrong. And he’d let his beard grow for a few days. Most people who knew him had always seen a clean-shaven guy, and he looked a lot younger without the stubble.

  And nobody ever saw him wearing that Cardinals shit. Nobody except Ashley Rist and Megan O’Neill, and they weren’t talking.

  Then there was that goddamn flower shop woman, who obviously gave them what they needed for the sketches. They weren’t great likenesses, but he had to figure somebody would connect the dots sooner or later.

  As soon as those composites hit the TV, he knew he was basically fucked, at least as far as completing this particular mission. That little bitch detective, so smug, so sure of herself. He’d seen it in her eyes. They practically screamed out: I’ve got him now.

  He’d liked it when that reporter knocked her on her ass with the question about her sister. The woman had Robitaille pegged. She was totally obsessed.

  With him .

  But if he pressed his luck, Robitaille would get her wish. He’d already made one big mistake, and now his mission was circling the toilet because of it.

  One dumbass mistake. He’d wracked his brains for the best way to get to Megan, and had come up with the flowers idea. And it had made sense at the time that he should get a really special bouquet—something a husband with money would send to his wife, and something that would help get Megan to open the door to him. The other option had been to just break in after she went to bed, but that was risky because he hadn’t had time to scout either her or the house. Going in blind, anything could have been waiting for him when he picked her locks.

  No, he’d been right to try to fool the bitch. But getting the flowers at that little shop—that had been a mistake.

  And he’d compounded the error by leaving the fucking flowers at the crime scene. He’d thrown the whole job together at the last minute because he had to get Megan before she hiked off to Springfield with Heath. He hadn’t planned to do her until the next trip, but Heath’s unexpected promotion had forced the issue.

  Shit.

  He was done in Florida now, thanks to his mistakes and to Detective Fucking Robitaille. Man, how he’d love to kill that little bitch. Beat her to a begging pulp and then shoot her veins full of the killing combo. She deserved it.

  But he couldn’t stay anywhere around West Palm anymore. His lake house wouldn’t be safe for much longer, either, but he had to go to ground there for a few days while he figured out the best way to get out of the country.

  As he finished his beer, he went over the list he’d made, now all crumpled from his outburst of rage when he watched Robitaille on TV. Kevin Kasinski, Matt Noble, Tyler Rist, Heath Harrison. All taken care of. Mission accomplished, four for four.

  But there were three more names on the list. Jake Ellison, Kenny Jones, Oscar Rodriguez. He’d planned on doing their bitches on the next trip to the Tampa Bay area. But those guys were on their own now, and though that made him want to puke, he wasn’t prepared to risk everything. He couldn’t go back to prison—not for the rest of his life. Or until they shot those fucking drugs into his own veins.

  The cops would love to see him get a taste of his own medicine. And one taste was all it took.

  He slammed down the empty beer bottle, seething at the thought of having to quit so soon. The season had been great until now. He’d knocked off four out of the seven on his list, and still had a good chunk of the season left to finish off the rest. In baseball, four out of seven was a hell of a batting average, but it wasn’t good enough for him. Anything less than a perfect seven for seven wasn’t good enough.

  He had to be perfect, because those other guys’ careers and lives were at stake.

  Still, it was better to get out now and live to help a lot more guys down the road. Spend some time in Mexico, get a little plastic surgery and a new identity. Then move on to one of the California leagues. With luck, as soon as next season he could be back in business. Men in his line of work could always get jobs in baseball.

  First, though, he had to take care of one last piece of business. It would be a big risk, but so well worth it. He could taste the bitch’s pain already, see her begging and screaming for her life. Or her death.

  He always gave the bitches a choice. But not this one. Like Griff had always told him—make somebody pay.

  This one would be personal.

  53<
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  * * *

  Wednesday, August 4

  9:05 p.m.

  Beckett shifted in his seat and fixed Amy with a determined gaze. “Okay, Detective, I’m not getting out of the car until you talk to me.”

  His anger had apparently simmered during the nearly silent drive back to HQ. Since he’d been deep in thought, Amy had let him be.

  She left the car running as she glanced toward the main entrance. The reporters and camera crews had taken off after the composite was released. The local stations had no doubt already broken into their scheduled programs with flash updates.

  At least she and Beckett wouldn’t have an audience out here if he insisted on talking.

  She patted the .40 caliber Glock on her hip. “Beckett, you’re forgetting I have a significant advantage here.”

  “Hilarious,” he said. “But now you’re going to sit there and tell me why you won’t talk about what happened at my house. And don’t say you haven’t been thinking about it.”

  Yeah, but thinking is one thing, talking another . She avoided looking at him. “What’s there to talk about? We had sex. It was fun. I went home.”

  He reached across the console to grasp her wrist. The heat and strength of his big hand sent a shudder through her. She tried half-heartedly to shake him off, still refusing to meet his eyes.

  “Amélie, you know there was more to it than sex. You don’t want to admit it, but we both know it’s true. It’s been true since the minute we saw each other across that hallway in the hospital.”

  Like Some Enchanted Evening . Amy grimaced, because it wasn’t that far from the truth. “Calice, what do you want from me?” Obviously, he wasn’t going to let her off the hook unless she really did pull her gun on him.

  “To get some clue into what you’re thinking. Why you’re pretending I was just something convenient to scratch your itch.”

  He shifted that long, rangy body again, leaning over the console until he was practically on top of her. Her breath quickened as for a moment she was sure he was going to kiss her. If he did, Amy didn’t know whether she could find enough strength to pull away from him.

  With a quick snap of his wrist, he shut off the ignition and leaned back. “Talk to me.”

  Amy unbuckled her seat belt and twisted around until her back was pressed against the door—as far away from Beckett as she could get without leaving the car. “Don’t invade my space like that, Beckett. Not without an invitation. Not ever,” she snapped, trying to sound tough.

  He gave a low growl of frustration. “Here’s a news flash for you. I’m not Gabe Labrash. And if I was just looking for a good time, I guarantee you I wouldn’t be putting up with this kind of crap.”

  The truth of that made her wince. Still, the problem wasn’t so much that she didn’t trust him, though that was still something of a question mark. It was that she didn’t trust herself. Even though she’d known that running to his house two nights ago had been stupid and wrong, the temptation he posed had overwhelmed her judgment. And she hated being that weak.

  “Crap, huh?” she shot back. “Well, the way I see it, you don’t have to put up with a damn thing. You can walk away right now. And if you insist on staying with the investigation, I’m sure we can manage a perfectly professional relationship.”

  “Sure, I could walk away. Maybe I should. Maybe I should even run.” He shook his head, his eyes blazing with exasperation. “But that’s your thing, running away and hiding. It’s not mine.”

  Amy glared at him, his words resonating. “I’ve hardly been hiding, Beckett. And you didn’t exactly knock my door down the next day.”

  Shit. That didn’t come out right .

  “I needed time to think,” he said. “So did you. This isn’t business as usual for either of us—we both know that.”

  “So you get to decide if, when, and how we talk, is that it?” she retorted. “Well, forget it. Even my father can’t do that to me anymore.”

  He studied her in silence, gently rubbing his thumb on the inside of her wrist. She swallowed. How could such a simple touch be so…unnerving?

  “What are you afraid of, Amélie?” he asked quietly.

  You, Beckett. I’m afraid of you.

  She made herself scoff. “I’m not afraid of anything. I just like my life the way it is. I’m comfortable with who I am. I know what I want and I know how I’m going to get it. I don’t need any complications.”

  “Complications like having a relationship? Like caring about someone?”

  This time she did jerk her hand away. “Screw that. I care about a lot of people, Beckett. Like my family. Like every one of my murder victims. Like every single member of their families. I do plenty of caring. Maybe too much.”

  “So, what exactly is it you want? What do you want so much that you’ve walled yourself off?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “I want to sit in Cramer’s chair someday before I get too damn old or get my ass shot off. But first I want to catch the baseball killer, and every other murdering son of a bitch who crosses my county line.”

  That brought a smile to his hard-set mouth. “See, it isn’t that hard to talk, is it?”

  “Don’t push your luck, Beckett.”

  “So, you want Cramer’s job, and you hope to grow old. Good ambitions. How about family? PTA meetings. Kids’ soccer games?”

  She couldn’t repress a disdainful huff. “Come on. Do I look like a soccer mom?”

  “Sure. I can totally picture it.”

  “Bullshit. Besides, you’re hardly the one to lecture me, Beckett. Is that stuff what you want? A wife in the kitchen and a house full of kids? Luke Beckett, the George Clooney of the sports world? Give me a break.”

  His smile vanished. “Like I said the other night, you don’t really know me. But you won’t give yourself a chance to change that. You’ll take on any risk for your job, but when it comes to the rest of your life, you’re totally risk-averse. You just block everyone out.”

  Amy’s throat suddenly tightened. She pressed the fingers of both hands into her forehead as if she had a migraine. The gesture gave her time to think. Time to get her emotions back under control. Beckett wasn’t going to let her off the hook, and though he might be an immovable, obstinate force, she had to admit that when it came to her, he was also a truth-speaker.

  “It’s all about your sister, isn’t it?” he said in a careful voice. “I’m no psychoanalyst, but I had to spend a lot of time with one after we got blown up in Afghanistan, and I can’t think of much worse than your twin being murdered. Christ, Amélie. You don’t have to go through it alone. You know I understand.”

  Her heart squeezed with a wounding pain. “No, you don’t,” she choked out. Instinctively, she reached for the handle, pushed the door open and lurched out. She couldn’t spend another second in that damn car, listening to that low but implacable voice. Desperately sucking in air, she slammed the door and strode on shaky legs toward the entrance to the station.

  But Beckett moved fast and within a few steps, his big hands were on her shoulders, turning her. Amy didn’t resist—her will to physically struggle seemed to disappear. She fell against him, burying her face in the warmth of his broad chest. Memories of Ariane flooded and overwhelmed her, and she’d have collapsed had it not been for Beckett’s strong arms supporting her.

  “I killed her, Beckett,” she said, half-sobbing. “Ariane died because of me.” Self-loathing surged through her and she pulled her face away as she gripped handfuls of his shirt. “Could you live with that? Could you have that blissfully normal life you were just rattling on about?”

  “But you told me—”

  “That a trucker picked her up and murdered her.” Clutching him, her fists turned white as tremors wracked her body. “The bastard put his filthy hands around my beautiful sister’s neck and choked the sweet life out of her. But she would never have even been there if it hadn’t been for me.”

  Beckett smoothed his hands over her shoulders i
n soft, comforting strokes that calmed her a little. “Tell me what happened. I need to know, and I think you need to say it.”

  She tried to shake her head, deny him what he wanted. She never talked to anyone about her true feelings. Not the shrink all those years ago. Not even her parents. But, impossibly, she was going to talk to Luke Beckett, a man she barely knew. She knew it because the words were already bubbling up from deep inside her, determined to surface despite her efforts to keep them submerged.

  “Please. Let’s get back in the car,” she said. “This is embarrassing. Unprofessional.” She wriggled out of his grip.

  “Only if you promise to tell me what happened.”

  “Shut up and get in the damn car, Beckett, before my good sense comes back.”

  Briefly, he studied her again, but then turned and climbed back into the passenger seat. Amy slid into the car and stared straight ahead. The silence, broken only by the faint ticking of the cooling engine, surrounded them. She took two deep breaths and began.

  “Ariane and I were going to make that trip home together. We were sick of Fort Lauderdale. After a few months of high school, we were both ready to shoot ourselves. We didn’t fit in there, and we missed absolutely everything about Montreal. Our friends, our school, our language, our culture. Everything.”

  She stopped. Her throat had tightened so much her words had come out almost as a croak. In her peripheral vision, she saw Beckett listening patiently, his eyes never wavering from her face.

  “Hitchhiking back for the summer was her idea. She said we could stay with our friends and get jobs at Olympic Stadium or La Ronde, or even work at McDonald’s if we had to. At first, I was all for it, but when we told our parents, they came at us like we’d told them we were going to become hookers. They hated the idea, because they wanted us to give Florida a real chance. They worried that if we spent the summer in Montreal, we might never come back. Papa wouldn’t give us any money for the trip, and he made it clear there’d be hell to pay if we defied him.”